Nurse, Come You Here!

by Mary J. Macleod

  Yerington, a hundred miles or so to the north (no one thinks anything of travelling hundreds of miles for a day out), was a small township? Village? Group of ranches?—I don’t know what it was, but it seemed to be very scattered but with a large permanent venue for the rodeos. These took place frequently and were real: owing nothing to tourism but concentrating on the competitive nature of the cattle ranchers of the area.

  But to us, and particularly Andy, this was like something out of the films and we had to keep reminding ourselves that it was real.

  We sat on tiered benches of sun-bleached wood and were very glad of our hats and sunglasses, as no one seemed to have heard of shade. Some of the stunt riders were unbelievably skilled, standing, hanging off the horse’s flank, hand-standing, head-standing, etc., and all with no saddle and at incredible speed. There was some bull riding, which was probably not quite as dangerous as it looked, but the bulls did not appear to enjoy it, snorting horribly all the time. And they were enormous.

  Some very skilled young folk then had a competition lassoing calves. Although they were undoubtedly very clever and practised, I hated to see the animals brought to the ground with such a bone-jarring thump. They must have been badly winded and bruised and I considered that it bordered on cruelty. But I suppose commercial cattle ranchers have to catch the animals somehow. One can only hope, naively perhaps, that the animals are well fed and watered and well looked after for their short lives. But, says my cynical side, probably only because a well-fed animal will fetch a good price at the market.

  I wonder if ranchers talk interminably about the price of cattle at the last sale just as the crofters do about the price of sheep at their last sale.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  A Grasshopper and a Black Widow

  Basking in the hot sunshine, I sat on a rock gazing over the water to the far mountains and thought that, apart from the hot sunshine, I could have been sitting on a rock on Papavray, gazing across water at far mountains. I began to consider the parallels as well as the contrasts between the ‘old life’ and this rather amazing new one, which puzzled me sometimes—puzzled and confused me because I seemed to be an entirely different person.

  I was no longer the dignified Nurse MacLeod whose advice was listened to and help accepted with a kind of respectful gratitude. Here, I was just another person, responsible only for looking after George, Andy, and the dogs. I had no employment and no status. This did not worry me nor did I think that it diminished me in any way, as I felt that I was on a semipermanent holiday. I was relaxed but baffled. I was not usually given to self-analysis so even these musings were out of character.

  Physically, I was ‘playing’ in the sun rather than battling through wind and rain to attend patients. I was water-skiing, walking in the hills—just enjoying free time and new experiences. I also felt younger! (This alone was surprising as I had undergone major surgery and follow-up treatment only a year ago.) The evening swimming with the girls had boosted my ego. I had overcome my fear of dark water (but not of spiders—yet). I had achieved a level of proficiency in water-skiing that amazed me. I was different!

  The parallels were there among the contrasts. Papavray had been ‘behind the times,’ like Nevada was by American standards. The island community had been small and intimate—we had been known by all because of our jobs and the boys and the fact that we were incomers. Here, it was a small community, down to earth as the crofters were with a similar view of life, work, and leisure. We were the only Brits. Here, objects of interest, curiosity, and a certain surprised respect, and everyone was friendly towards us. But although very happy here, there was nothing that I could offer in return—only pleasant chat, offers of help which were never needed, and an attempt to understand the way of life—relaxed, unambitious, expecting little. That was like the crofters, too, and I liked that attitude. I realised that I was never going to really get to know people well as we would only be here for a few months.

  George was contented. He was interested in the work, had regular hours, enjoyed the water sports, and liked the space and freedom of Nevada. I loved that aspect of this state, later to be contrasted with the sophistication and the rules and regulations of California, with its traffic, smog, and fast pace of life. Both states, however, had seemingly unlimited sunshine.

  Practically, there was little to worry about. George was well paid and we were housed in company accommodation, our only bills were for food and petrol (for boat and car) and these was very cheap compared with the UK, so this too added to the delightful feeling of being on holiday. But one peculiarity to do with finances was a real difficulty to us. We had come from a culture where, apart from a possible mortgage, one tried not to accumulate debts of any sort. In America, everyone seemed to live on credit, and their creditworthiness or rating was based on their ability to pay the various interests in full and on time. Obviously, we had taken with us no debts, so we had no proof that we were in a position to pay them off. In other words, we had no proof of creditworthiness, so we were refused American Express cards or any other sort of credit card. We could not be trusted. We had no proof of our financial position, no proof that we were ‘good payers.’

  The result of this extraordinary situation was that, in order to buy two cars and a boat, we had to withdraw vast amounts of money in order to pay for these commodities in cash. After long months of arguing and referring American banks to our UK bank, we were grudgingly allowed an American Express card. Two days later another arrived. No one knew why. Even then there was a certain amount of disbelief. How could anyone not owe any money? This concept was beyond their ken. I think they eventually decided that it was because we were Brits and therefore bound to be slightly odd.

  Andy, untroubled by such things, was certainly enjoying his extended summer holiday (vacation?) in the sun-drenched freedom of the waterside. He was at just the right age for all this physical activity and mingled with all the locals and the sailing fraternity no matter what their age. That was another thing. If you were younger or older than the locals—perhaps by a long way—they did not seem to notice.

  Andy and Jason were chatting one day when Jason mentioned the CAP (Civil Air Patrol), rather like our Air Force Cadets, and suggested that Andy go along to one of the meetings. An ex-US Air Force officer welcomed Andy into the group of only about five boys and he began to enjoy the various activities. Sometime before he joined, a trip in a small aircraft from a local airstrip had been planned. The Cessna aircraft would only take three boys and they had already been booked, the officer told Andy, but he could go to the airfield any way to have a look around.

  Quite resigned, Andy wandered around the airstrip after the lucky boys took off.

  ‘You look kinda lonely, youngster.’ A large man dressed like a cowboy addressed Andy, who explained why he had been left behind.

  ‘Aw, Gee! We can’t have that,’ declared the grey-haired cowboy. ‘Come ee here.’

  Andy followed as the big man strode towards a hanger. Throwing the doors back, he began to heave a tarpaulin off a small plane.

  ‘Give me a hand here. We’ll see about leaving you behind, young fella.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘I was a flier in World War Two. Picked this beauty up afterwards.’

  Andy could scarcely believe his eyes. There in all its understated glory was a ‘Grasshopper’ Reconnaissance plane with USAAF in letters and the insignia of the star still on the khaki-coloured fuselage!

  ‘Fancy a ride, young ’un?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please.’

  They pushed the iconic plane out onto the runway. The ‘cowboy’ pilot climbed in, handing Andy in behind him, started the engine, taxied around, and lined the plane up for take-off.

  They climbed into the sky, the pilot pointing out all the places of interest, telling Andy tales of his wartime exploits, and explaining how the controls functioned. They roamed about the heavens for some thirty minutes. Andy was ecstatic, asking questions about the plane and the pilot’s war service. They even
tually came in to the airstrip to find three boys scowling with envy. They had only had the proscribed ten minutes flight with virtually no input from their pilot. Andy tells me now—thirty years later—that those boys did not speak to him for the rest of the afternoon. He was the outsider but had had by far the best flight and some personal attention from the pilot.

  An interesting point to his CAP membership is that he should not have been enrolled at all. He was not an American citizen! The CAP was American for Americans, but no one had thought to ask and we did not know that there was such a requirement.

  Andy’s next adventure is chiselled into my memory alongside the ‘Block and Tackle’ incident on Papavray some years before.

  The two big, cigar-chewing silver-mine owners saw Andy wandering about at the waterfront one day and asked if he would care to earn a little pocket money. They were constructing a ‘bed’ of sand (a huge area about the size of a football pitch) onto which they would tip the shale that had been removed from the mine forty years earlier. At the time, it had been thought that the mine was worked out, but new technology now meant that the remaining silver could be released from the abandoned shale. The men would pour cyanide on to the shale to tease the silver out of its rocky home and into their pockets, so to speak. Creating this bed was labour-intensive and unskilled and they would be glad of his help. Sensing a new experience as well as a little cash, Andy was happy to go off to work with them about twice a week. As he was only thirteen, I suspected that employing him was illegal. But, then again, this was Nevada.

  It was hot out there on the open desert, so frequent breaks were needed. Andy sat on a pile of stones, eating, drinking, and chatting. Sweat was running down his back and his tee shirt was wet. As he rose to start work again, he brushed his hand round his neck and face. All was well as he shovelled sand onto the ‘bed’ and the miners brought him home as usual, bidding him a raucous ‘Goodnight, kid. See ya tomorrow.’

  Andy seemed tired and went off to bed early. He enjoyed the sense of earning some money and found the two men to be good companions, but working in the hot sun in the shadeless desert was tiring.

  I had a little difficulty rousing him the next morning, but he pottered off to the bathroom as usual. When he emerged and I looked at him properly, I could see that he looked pale.

  ‘My eyes are funny, Mum,’ he reported. ‘I feel really weird. I don’t want any breakfast.’

  He sat, almost collapsed, onto the settee. ‘Everything is blurred—I can’t see.’

  Too much sun, I thought, and not wearing sunglasses, perhaps.

  Just then, Jake, one of the men, shouted from the big red truck outside, ‘You comin’, kid?’

  I called down to him. ‘He’s not well. I don’t know what’s wrong.’

  Jake loped up the outside stairs. ‘You sound worried, Ma’am. What’s up, kid? You crocked up?’

  ‘Can’t see properly. Feel sick. Back of my neck is sore.’

  Jake looked at me. ‘Mind if I have a look, ma’am? Used to these parts, y’see. All manner of bugs … ’

  He carefully lifted Andy’s head forward and peered at the back of his neck.

  ‘Spider bite, ma’am. I’d get him to a physic—’

  I was getting my car keys. ‘Where … who?’ I realised that I had no idea where the nearest doctor might be.

  Jake looked at Andy again, picked him up and strode down the steps to the car. He put him in, where he slumped against the back of the seat with his eyes closed. His face was sheet-white.

  ‘Best go straight to the Air Base—just up the highway to Hawthorne.’ He shut the door. ‘I’d shift a bit,’ he advised.

  I certainly ‘shifted.’ With no traffic and a straight road, we quickly reached the heavily guarded gates of the USAAF Base.

  Wondering if I might have trouble getting past the gun-encrusted, uniformed giant at the gate, I drew up and lowered the window.

  He was shouting, ‘Hey. You can’t come in here, lady.’

  Suddenly inspired, I shouted back, ‘Spider bite,’ and nodded towards Andy’s inert figure.

  The change was instant!

  ‘Right, ma’am—surgery—second building on the right … I’ll call them … ’

  Others had rushed to open the gate and I roared in to pull up at the second building on the right.

  In that short time, two men in white coats had been mustered to lift Andy gently but at speed onto a trolley. They ran with him into the treatment room where two doctors stood beside the examination table, and just as Andy was lifted onto it, he fainted. He came round as I was telling them what I knew of where Andy had been the day before, the circumstances and what the miner had said that he thought it might be.

  ‘Did you feel a bite anywhere?’ Andy was asked.

  ‘No—just a tickle—I think,’ he murmured woozily.

  ‘Where?’

  Andy indicated the back of his neck and then closed his eyes as though that small effort had been too much for him.

  He was gently turned over and his neck thoroughly examined.

  ‘Just here,’ said Doctor Number One, pointing to the marks that Jake must have seen.

  ‘Hmm. Brown recluse? Black widow?’

  Doctor Number Two peered and poked a bit. ‘Bit near the … ’ Then they dropped their voices and I heard ‘nerve’ and ‘carotid’ and then just a lot of ‘hmmms.’

  Doctor Number One was pondering, ‘Marks too small for brown recluse. I’d say black widow.’

  I was holding Andy’s hand. He must have felt grim because he made no objection to this embarrassing maternal gesture.

  The doctors looked at each other and at me. ‘The widow could not have emptied her entire sac, or he would have been ill right away and perhaps much worse.’

  ‘What now?’ I asked, very frightened.

  ‘We can give an antidote, but he will not be feeling well for a while. He will need to be watched carefully and to rest. No more shovelling sand in the sun. He has been lucky. He must have brushed that widow off in time or he would have been in real danger. Oh! And no swimming in Walker Lake until the bite is completely healed.’

  Doctor Number Two looked surprised. ‘What is wrong with Walker Lake?’ he asked.

  Doctor Number One replied, ‘You can walk on it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When it turns over—about now.’

  Doctor Number Two still looked puzzled, but Doctor Number One gave the antidote and we were off. I did not wait to hear about the disgusting plant life shortly to be heaved up from the depths of the lake. The doctor obviously thought that it was a health hazard.

  Andy did not look any better in spite of the antidote and I had hoped for some assistance getting him up the outside stair, but there was no one about. With my help, he managed it, but the effort was too great and, as soon as he flopped onto his bed, he fainted again.

  For the next few weeks, Andy was really ill. He was weak, tired, and had no interest in anything. He could not eat and had to use a straw to take liquids, as the inside of his mouth ulcerated. The bite itself healed—it was very small—but the toxin had done its damage to his entire body. I did not dare to think how ill he might have been if that wretched black widow had emptied the whole contents of her sac into him.

  Gradually, he regained strength, looked better—if thinner—and began to wander about at the waterfront, but it was a while until he water-skied again. The doctor had been right: the lake had ‘turned over’ and was only now becoming fit to use again.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Back to California

  We were all enjoying the relaxed atmosphere of Nevada so much that we were reluctant to confront the fact that George’s work in Hawthorne was almost at an end and that we would have to start looking for a house in California. His contract with the company was for several years, so we intended to buy a property and settle Andy in school. The company was based in San Clemente and George’s work would be in that area so a home somewhere nearby was a sensi
ble option.

  George was not due any ‘vacation time,’ so I would have to drive down to San Clemente and go house hunting. We had arranged for John and Joanna to come for a holiday, so I timed the two trips together—the house hunting and LA airport to fetch them.

  Andy and I set off with two confused dogs—they had only just got used to Walker Lake—completed the ‘marathon,’ found a motel, and the next day began the round of the realtors (estate agents to us). We looked at many beautiful homes, some on one level, some on two, some with a sizeable yard (garden), some with none. We found two that took our eye and I began to learn about the complications of the finance attached to house buying.

  Back in the UK, we had no mortgage, totally owning our home. The various realtors found this unnatural and I was told that I must choose somewhere with finance on it. I gradually understood that home loans (mortgages) in California stay with the property when there is a sale: the buyer does not arrange his own, so you ‘inherit’ the existing home loan.

  ‘You must get a house with a good loan on it,’ I was told, and found all this advice difficult to comprehend until it was made clear that when we came to sell, no American would be keen on a home without a substantial loan in place. No one buys for cash, so everyone needs a loan. I only just made sense of it all but needed to get on with actually locating somewhere to live.

  Then we found a home with a swimming pool and a jacuzzi. As soon as Andy saw it, I knew that it would be ours! It was the best option at the right price anyway with, of course, ‘a good loan.’ I knew George would love it, which was just as well as I was going to have to buy this home in Mission Viejo without him having a sight of it.

  I set things in motion and the following day set off for the airport to fetch John, Joanna, Josh, and six-month-old Maxim.