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Here's a big thanks from the stoved-up

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By W.B. Evans

Eating your own words (or thoughts) isn’t always the most appetizing thing on the menu. 

Like castor oil, it can get something stuck out of your system.

You know, I’ve read my share of letters to the editor from folks who want to thank others for doing the job they are paid to do. 

And most of the time, I made light of their letters. 

However, that chicken has come home to roost and is crowing away atop a house gutter.

Now, as a senior citizen (that means I have a young mind attached to an old body), I recently climbed a ladder to clean out a gutter just like I’ve done for several years.

I found myself at a four-way stop when the ladder went one way, the gutter went one way, the downspout went one way and I went another. 

It was like Superman going down after grabbing a chunk of kryptonite. 

Trust me, gravity doesn’t give any senior citizen discounts. 

Well, sir, I came tumbling down. 

Unlike Mother Goose’s “Jack,” I didn’t break my crown. However, I sure did mess up a collarbone and a bunch of ribs. 

The medical folks will tell you time heals all wounds, and this is one of those times. Well, that, and something for the pain.

The one positive from the initial fall was restoring my faith in the younger generation.

I hollered for help a bunch, or at least it felt like it. 

My great-grandson heard my cries for help and didn’t ignore my tears. 

He summoned help from the grown-ups in the house. 

My wife, with some Superman-like strength, managed to get me into the family car and  drove me to the Springs Memorial Hospital Emergency Room faster than a speeding bullet.

Now, by that time, I was really hurting like the dickens.

I did get sorta upset with the administrative paperwork, but having been in the world of corporate business, I understand the forms to be filled out must equal the weight of the injured.

I don’t recall much after the X-rays, but folks were checking on me right and left.

After getting the once-over from an ER physician, I was gurnied into a room. Within minutes, the oxygen was flowing up my nostrils.

The parting shot (the last thing I remembered for a while) was a junkie’s dream and had me drifting off into a sky filled with fluffy, pain-free clouds.

Like all good things, I floated down to the real world and the hurtin’ returned. That nurse call button got real quick attention. I was on the verge of getting fussy, but the nurses were so gentle and caring I did my best to be a good and patient patient.

This hospital stay had me recalling one from several years ago when I was rushed in with a heart attack. 

You know, looking at the ceiling from a hospital bed gives one plenty of time to contemplate a bunch of stuff, like the folks who are taking care of you.

Yes sir, these folks were doing just what they are being paid to do, look after the sick and stove up.

It didn’t take me very long to realize, they didn’t do it with moans and frowns. Hey, they really cared about me.

Special thanks go to Jane, Pam, Patsy, Stephanie, Elsie, CiCi, Nicole and Judy. 

I may have missed some other names, but your faces are clear. I hope each of you will recall my better moods and I thank you for your attention.

CiCi, thank you for going to all the trouble of getting me a fruit plate that night I just couldn’t handle the turnip greens. 

I’d wager you Florence Nightingales remember how my pain was always on the high scale of 10. I am just a softee and can’t tolerate pain.

These days, given how things have played out, a lot of Lancaster folks have a hard feelings for anything associated or related to the Springs name.

But Springs Memorial Hospital needs to be the exception to that.

The colonel’s family built us a pretty good hospital  with a staff who contributes to the good health and welfare of our community.

That’s especially true for those of us with cracked ribs and collarbones who occasionally dine on crow.