January 14, 2003

By Monte Noelke

     During the holidays the doctor who had looked after all eight of my children asked me to come by his new clinic.  We are old friends and have ridden out many a case of fevered strep throat, high pressure wind colic and a side scope of exotic second and third grade illnesses in boys that struck only on school days and ended sharply at 3 in the afternoon.

     A sense of danger filled the stair well of his building.  Shrill juvenile cries and raspy hoarse adult voices commanded the air.  At floor level my first instinct was to dial 911 and ask for a squad of National Guardsmen.  The second consideration was to grab a wooden coat hanger off the hat rack, straighten out the hook, and back up the stairs before the pack spotted me as a straggler.

     All memories had slipped away of post-holiday epidemics in the pediatric clinics.  Forgotten at the time were the humid station wagon rides into San Angelo from the ranch, crowded into seats and resting on slippery floor boards covered in diaper bags and extra coveralls and wet cotton balls and wads of Kleenex and a big wash pan for emergencies.

     Our first child was a girl followed by seven boys.  She sat up front by her mother.  From then on, once a boy outgrew the baby basket, the pecking order for cabin room was settled by bare knuckles, scissor locks and body slams.

     However, enough did come back to remind me not to let this bunch corner me.  The size of the gang was impossible to tell.  The best counter to ever walk down an auction barn alley could have dropped 10 head in any direction unless he'd had special training doing a sweep on the ladders and gym stuff.

     The parents had such desperate cases of waiting room stupor they needed to be evacuated instead of kept on the front lines.  Small bodies rolled in and out from under the seats; mammas clutched their purses up high on their chests and the dads slumped over and nodded against near shoulders.

     By chance, the closest exit turned out to be the one to the doctor's office.  Tailored like a Brooks Brothers ad, he launched a critique on a historical novel he'd received as a Christmas gift.  Seated in the midst of an infantile rebellion, with white caps and paramedics swirling past his door, he wanted to know who knew to author of the new book.

     About that moment a lady in a white coat came in carrying seven or eight charts and scowling like the prosecutors used to do in the t.v. show of "Fool the Jury," or Deceive the Judge," or whatever those silly dramas were called.

     She must have been an actress herself to have such good lines.  "Mr. Noelke," she said, "I am always glad to see you come and cheer up the doctor, but I am even happier to see you leave."

     These modern day waiting rooms full of toys and swings incite wild behavior.  I've thought of suggesting a space be added like the St. Louis zoo has to resemble a jungle.  As rough as that crowd was, they'd fit well in treetops and on swinging vines.