night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” If I could, I would send you one of his pictures, but I had to burn them and his toys because of the polio germs.
Well, I better go now. But don’t ever forget—I love you better than pinto beans and cornbread.
Your daughter,
Ann Fay
I sent that letter off with a prayer that the war would be over soon and my daddy would be home again. And Bobby and Momma too. All of us put back together.
But for now, I knew I had to make the best of it. In the evenings I read the newspaper—after I was done washing the clothes, cooking meals, and working in the garden.
I read everything in it, even the Colored News, which mostly told about their special church programs, like gospel quartets. And personal news, like who just sent their sons off to the war. It put me in mind of that colored soldier that got on the train the same time as my daddy.
Every day the paper had something on the front page about the polio hospital. One day it showed a picture of aniron lung. It looked like a big metal barrel on a stand. There was lots of buttons and meters on it and some little windows on the side—I reckon so the doctors and nurses could look in or maybe reach in and take care of the patient.
There wasn’t nobody in it, so I couldn’t really tell how my brother would look in one of them. And I for sure couldn’t figure out how it worked. But I remembered how Junior said only a person’s head would be sticking out. It made me feel all lightheaded just to think about my little brother being trapped in one of them. He should be running around in the back yard with Pete right now.
One thing I read in the paper just stuck with me. At the end of an article about that hospital it said, “The first case of polio was reported in Wilson County today. A thirteen-yearold white girl came down with the disease.”
Well, I don’t live in Wilson County, but the rest of it sounded like me. When I went to bed that night, I kept hearing that sentence in my head: A thirteen-year-old white girl came down with the disease. Those words floated in and out of my dreams and kept me half awake until I couldn’t tell what was dreaming and what was real. I spent the night wiggling everything from my toes to my nose just to prove to myself that I didn’t have polio.
When I woke up the next day I almost give up on reading that paper. But then Ida started pestering me to read it to her and Ellie. So sometimes I would tell them what it said. The good stuff, anyway.
“The polio hospital is bright and sunny,” I told them. “It says they have really good doctors. And lots of volunteers—the women from the Hickory Country Club are providing food for the people at the hospital. It says they need baby beds and electric fans, but everything else has been donated.”
“Like what?” asked Ellie.
“Like hotplates and sheets and lots of blankets for the Kenny treatments.”
“What’s the Kenny treatments?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m sure they make Bobby feel better.”
It seemed like the epidemic was just getting worse. Every day the papers told about some camp or special program that was closed because of infantile paralysis. It even said the Catawba County schools wouldn’t open on schedule. And that included Mountain View, our school.
At first the Hickory Daily Record had said the emergency hospital would be equipped for forty patients. But about three weeks later the paper said they had ninety patients. Volunteers was working around the clock, building new wards for all them people who had polio.
The polio news was always right there on the front page. And all around the polio news was articles about the war. I read the parts that wouldn’t scare my sisters. Like when the Yanks—that’s the American soldiers—took some city back from Hitler. If a soldier from Hickory got killed, I didn’t dare mention it because the girls would think Daddy was dead. And to be honest, it always
Well, I better go now. But don’t ever forget—I love you better than pinto beans and cornbread.
Your daughter,
Ann Fay
I sent that letter off with a prayer that the war would be over soon and my daddy would be home again. And Bobby and Momma too. All of us put back together.
But for now, I knew I had to make the best of it. In the evenings I read the newspaper—after I was done washing the clothes, cooking meals, and working in the garden.
I read everything in it, even the Colored News, which mostly told about their special church programs, like gospel quartets. And personal news, like who just sent their sons off to the war. It put me in mind of that colored soldier that got on the train the same time as my daddy.
Every day the paper had something on the front page about the polio hospital. One day it showed a picture of aniron lung. It looked like a big metal barrel on a stand. There was lots of buttons and meters on it and some little windows on the side—I reckon so the doctors and nurses could look in or maybe reach in and take care of the patient.
There wasn’t nobody in it, so I couldn’t really tell how my brother would look in one of them. And I for sure couldn’t figure out how it worked. But I remembered how Junior said only a person’s head would be sticking out. It made me feel all lightheaded just to think about my little brother being trapped in one of them. He should be running around in the back yard with Pete right now.
One thing I read in the paper just stuck with me. At the end of an article about that hospital it said, “The first case of polio was reported in Wilson County today. A thirteen-yearold white girl came down with the disease.”
Well, I don’t live in Wilson County, but the rest of it sounded like me. When I went to bed that night, I kept hearing that sentence in my head: A thirteen-year-old white girl came down with the disease. Those words floated in and out of my dreams and kept me half awake until I couldn’t tell what was dreaming and what was real. I spent the night wiggling everything from my toes to my nose just to prove to myself that I didn’t have polio.
When I woke up the next day I almost give up on reading that paper. But then Ida started pestering me to read it to her and Ellie. So sometimes I would tell them what it said. The good stuff, anyway.
“The polio hospital is bright and sunny,” I told them. “It says they have really good doctors. And lots of volunteers—the women from the Hickory Country Club are providing food for the people at the hospital. It says they need baby beds and electric fans, but everything else has been donated.”
“Like what?” asked Ellie.
“Like hotplates and sheets and lots of blankets for the Kenny treatments.”
“What’s the Kenny treatments?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m sure they make Bobby feel better.”
It seemed like the epidemic was just getting worse. Every day the papers told about some camp or special program that was closed because of infantile paralysis. It even said the Catawba County schools wouldn’t open on schedule. And that included Mountain View, our school.
At first the Hickory Daily Record had said the emergency hospital would be equipped for forty patients. But about three weeks later the paper said they had ninety patients. Volunteers was working around the clock, building new wards for all them people who had polio.
The polio news was always right there on the front page. And all around the polio news was articles about the war. I read the parts that wouldn’t scare my sisters. Like when the Yanks—that’s the American soldiers—took some city back from Hitler. If a soldier from Hickory got killed, I didn’t dare mention it because the girls would think Daddy was dead. And to be honest, it always
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