Out of the Past~~one of Torie's Travels
Dr. Jacob Krout and family
The times in Grandma Rose’s house were always special. I was
just blown away, walking through the rooms, preparing and having meals with the
family, evenings sitting outside in warm weather and all the family talking
about their days as well as news from town. Watching it all unfold as they
carved out their place in Fremont during a century and a half of living.
But then one warp—the fun ended, and it got a little too
real. I had no mirror, but by looking at the young, un-marred skin of my hands
and the dark-brown locks that hung over my chest, I knew. I was my
great-grandaunt Mahala Wyman who shared a headstone with Judson and Rose. She
died at twenty-one of heart failure, known as dropsy back then.
I warped in, arriving in the back bedroom, facing the barn.
I was in bed, and my pillows propped me up so I could see out the window. It
was the same window that I had a photograph of with the barn and draft team.
That was my other clue. I knew from other times there, that this was Mahala’s
bedroom.
This was also very unsettling. This was what my mom had died
of six years ago. I knew now part of what my mom had endured. I felt ill. I
could feel the illness in my body. I was weak and dizzy. I was in a
long-sleeved cotton nightgown with blue blossoms and I was bedridden. Although
I was covered only with a light sheet, my legs felt heavy and immovable, as if
a heavy comforter or something was over them. The air was cool. I could hear
birds singing outside. A light breeze ruffled the curtains at the window.
I seemed to observe all
this in a split second because then I became aware of
the weight, as a person sat down beside me and I looked over to see a man
dressed in a black suit. He put a stethoscope in his ears, unbuttoned my gown
and placed the disc over my chest, listening to my heart. He was Dr. Jacob
Krout. He had been the doctor in Fremont for more than forty-three years. He
looked young, and was probably in his early thirties. I had seen several
photographs of him which people had added to his online memorial. He was buried
in Cedar with his family. His wife Mary Alice was a
Dinsmore.
He quietly listened to my heart as I studied his
kind face.
“Take a deep breath Mahala,” he requested. “And
another. Good.” He smiled kindly at me and buttoned my gown. “I will be making
the rounds to see your sister Ivy when I leave here. She and Joshua are sure
looking forward to that little one. I don’t think I have ever seen a couple more
anxious for a child.”
The doctor looked from me, to some point at my
left and I became aware that someone was holding my hand. My great-great-grandma
Rose was sitting beside me, in a chair.
“We are all looking forward to that new grand
baby,” Rose said, patting my hand. “I think Mahala more than anyone. How is your
family, Dr. Krout? Mary Alice and little Erma,”
“Everyone is just fine. Erma will be going on ten
years next month.”
The doctor looked back to me and smiled. “I will
stop again tomorrow.” He assured, rising and taking his stethoscope from his
neck to place it into his medical bag on the floor beside him.
“I’ll see you out, Doctor,” Rose
offered.
“I can see myself out, Rose.” He patted her
shoulder and walked to the door. “Until tomorrow,”
Rose turned her attention back to me as the
bedroom door closed softy and I noticed she had a bible open in her lap. She
began reading to me from some chapter. I have no idea what chapter it was. The
good book wasn’t one of those on my book shelf. I hadn’t cracked a bible since I
was confirmed at thirteen years old. Rose finished the passage and then lifted
my hand and kissed the back gently.
“Mahala, you are the light of my life,
sweetheart. I want you to know that. I love you so much. We will read and pray
every day until you are well. I have faith in God. You need to have faith and
believe.”
“I will, Mother.
Mother, what day is it?”
“Friday, April
10.”
“What
year?”
She looked at me as
though fearing I was having a fit or something. She touched my forehead gently,
searching for fever. I was almost certain I knew the year because the doctor
mentioned Ivy being anxious to deliver Katie, but I just wanted it
confirmed.
“Eighteen ninety-one,
sweet,”
Mahala Wyman died on
April 11, 1891
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