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Updated: May 17, 2025
She could hardly lift herself a drink out of a full dipper without spilling two-thirds of the contents on the ground. Uncle Beck, the Pennsylvania Dutch country doctor who married Aunt Alice, came driving in from Antonville, five miles away, once or twice a week to tend to Millie, free, as we were too poor to pay for a doctor. I remember how Uncle Beck caught me and whipped me with a switch.
"Yes, if you don't do what I tell you." "I won't." "We'll see." "Very well, father, we will see." "If you weren't such a sick kid I'd trounce you." You could approach Antonville by surrey, buggy or foot ... along a winding length of dusty road ... or muddy ... according to rain or shine. My Uncle Beck drove me out in a buggy.
I was silent ... amused ... interested ... then "well, Granma'll tell me all about it when she comes ... and I can judge for myself, and," I added whimsically, "I suppose if they love each other it ought to be all right." And we both laughed. When Granma heard I was West she couldn't reach Antonville fast enough. She was the same dear childlike woman, only incredibly older-looking.
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