Six Weeks in Summer

Between our house on The Point and where the road turned into an overgrown and seldom used cow path, there were four other houses. Not a single one of them had a telephone nor a vehicle so it was no surprise that when any sort of minor emergency happened, island folks came knocking on our back door. Even so, when my grandmother discovered Old Hat on the doorstep on a clear and bright Sunday morning, she was more than a little surprised. The wizened old woman - well into her 70's and still barely as tall as I was at nearly 13 - was my idea of a perfect crone. She was all in black except for her mud-brown work boots, her top hat was perched crookedly atop an untamed mass of gray to white wild hair, and her trusty scattergun was resting on one scrawny shoulder.

“Goodness me,” I heard Nana say, “Hattie! What brings you............”

“It's Sparrow,” Hattie said flatly, never one for preliminaries, “Sorry ass old fool's took sick and cain't git up. Best send for that new blood suckin' quack doctor.” And quicker'n Jack Robinson, she turned on her heel and limped off.

“Call Elsie and have Doc Roberts to come,” Nana ordered me briskly, “Then fetch me the first aid kit and a bottle of brandy whilst I git dressed. Go on, child! Hop to it and close your mouth, you'll catch flies!”

I hopped to it, trotting to the old telephone and ringing up the island switchboard. Miz Elsie answered immediately, reckoned that Doc Roberts was still in Central Grove tending to Bill Albright's recently broke ankle, but that she'd find him and send him our way. I relayed the news to my grandmother and she nodded approvingly before we set out down the road to Sparrow's, first aid kit in one hand and brandy discreetly tucked into a picnic basket and covered with a checked napkin.

Hattie was already there, sitting primly in one of the porch rocking chairs, shotgun laid across her lap, mouth set in a hard line and glaring at nothing in particular.

“Ain't got all day, missus,” she said sharply, “You or the doc be needin' anythin', you kin fetch me.” For emphasis, she spat out a wad of tobacco. Nana flinched and my stomach did a fluttery thing. “Be jist like that ol' man to up and die while I'm sloppin' his hogs”, she added, “Ain't got no time, no how for this neighbor horseshit.”

Doc Roberts arrived about that time and I almost didn't notice Nana's smile as she watched Hattie trudge off toward the pig sty.

“Come on in, Doc,” Nana said mildly, “Ol' hag's all smoke and no fire, same as Sparrow. They been feudin' long as there's been dirt and neither one could get along without the other.”

Doc Roberts laughed and climbed the rickety stairs. “So I hear, Miz Watson,” he said, “So I always here.”

Sparrow, it turned out, had managed to contract a case of pneumonia and despite his cursing and protesting, was confined to his bed for a full 6 weeks.

“Look here, you damn fool,” Doc told him gruffly, “You can do what I tell you and get well or you can cash in your chips and get yourself put six feet under. Makes no difference to me one way or the other but I'm not about to waste my time or my antibiotics on you if you're not going to meet me halfway. So roll up your sleeve or tell me to go to hell, I don't care. Do I make myself clear?”

Scowling and muttering under his breath while my grandmother did her best to hide a smile, Sparrow rolled up his sleeve.

It took every day of the following six weeks and every scrap of patience we had, but Sparrow got well. Hattie tended him daily - cooking, cleaning and making sure he took his pills. Under her watchful (or more likely suspicious) eye, Ruthie and I were delegated to care for the pigs and chickens and keep the solitary old cow milked while Nana came by every few days to check our progress. In time, Doc Roberts pronounced the old man as good as new but then had the temerity to suggest that Old Hat might deserve a thank you. Sparrow spat and promptly threw a shoe at him. Life on The Point was back to normal.