PART ONE - For
this I was Born
Chapter 1
It is the morning of August 28, 1910.
There is a haze outside hiding the sun while inside the air is stiflingly
hot and humid. In one corner of the room a massive wardrobe stands in
masculine majesty. In the opposite corner, made of the same wood but
somewhat smaller in its feminine daintiness is an intricately carved chest
of drawers. Between the room's two front windows is a beautiful dressing
table with a large oval plate glass mirror. A chair stands in front of it.
This furniture was a wedding gift from the parents of the young woman now
beginning to breathe hard and moan softly. The huge brass bed was a
wedding gift from her husband's widowed father. The husband and soon to be
father, despite the oppressive heat, is downstairs in the kitchen
nervously heating some water in a shiny tea kettle on top of a brightly
polished black coal stove. In the parlor the hands of a valuable Seth
Thomas wall clock move slowly toward the midday hour as its mechanism
ticks off the seconds.
It is Sunday morning and most people are at church. The two upstairs
bedroom windows open to their fullest, look down upon a quiet scene. It is
one that with minor variations can be duplicated in many other
neighborhoods in Shamokin, at this time, a prosperous anthracite
coal-mining town in Pennsylvania. The pavements are made of hard red
bricks neatly arranged in mosaics to benefit from the contrasting
whiteness of cut mountain stone used for curbing. The street is simply the
blackest dirt imaginable. When the spring rains come, the streets are a
sea of mud. However, now near the end of a parched summer, the street is
baked so hard that when the wheels of a common delivery wagon or a stately
carriage roll into its ruts, there is nothing for the hapless driver to do
but continue moving on in them.
On each front lawn of the comfortable, but by no means elaborate, homes
that line both sides of the street stands a towering tree. Some trees are
elms and maples while others are horse chestnuts and oaks. They provide
some shade for those brave souls who, on a sweltering day such as this,
dare to venture forth from the coolness of their shuttered parlors. Behind
the houses on one side of the street are long, pleasant yards with fruit
trees, melon vines and blackberry bushes. Some of the homes have grape
arbors, heavy now with their purple clusters. This very afternoon some of
these lucky homeowners will play croquet on their well-manicured grass. On
the other side of the street where the laboring mother to be and her
sweltering husband live, it is a different story. Not a single house has a
back yard and the foundations rise starkly upward out of an evil smelling
creek of sulfur water into which pours all the raw sewage of the
neighborhood. On a Sunday such as this, the water is brown but during the
rest of the week when the mines are working, it is black with coal dirt.
The stench is at times almost unbearable, but it is a fact of life, and
the people now in the upstairs bedroom stoically ignore it.
A distinguished looking man sits beside the bed. He is the family doctor.
A little black satchel is open at his feet. He has been sitting there for
more than an hour. Yet he has done nothing and apparently intends to do
nothing to relieve the suffering of the woman on the bed. He honestly
believes a mother who suffers during childbirth will love her baby more
than if the birth were an easy one. At intervals he takes a gold watch
from his pocket, opens it slowly and looks at its face. Then he puts it
back in his pocket. He seems perfectly satisfied with the way things are
progressing. On the other side of the bed, his wife sits in a rocking
chair, a matronly and capable looking woman. She is ready to assist in
bringing another baby into the world as she has many times before. At
times she strokes the young woman's hair or holds her hand and in other
ways tries to comfort her. Meanwhile, the pains of the mother to be have
become more severe and are at noticeably shorter intervals. All at once,
throwing her brave resolutions to the winds, she slightly raises her body,
tosses her head back and screams loudly and unashamedly. The doctor
sharply rebukes her. His wife looks across the bed at him with reproachful
eyes because of his thoughtless and unprofessional behavior. As she
strokes the young woman's forehead with one calming hand, she signals with
a finger of the other hand to her lips that he says no more. The body on
the bed stiffens and the mother to be brushes aside the hand stroking her
forehead. She opens her eyes and in their azure blue depths is the
startled look of a mental hurt deeper than physical pain. Her eyes close
as if in peace at last and her body goes limp in a welcome respite of
blessed unconsciousness. The doctor, somewhat taken aback by these
unexpected reactions, stares at her with grudging admiration, then sensing
that delivery time is close at hand raises the top sheet and goes to work.
A few minutes past the stroke of twelve by the chiming clock in the
downstairs parlor the miracle of birth occurs. A high piercing cry rends
the air and the doctor brings forth from beneath the sheet a small pink
wriggling body. He holds it triumphantly aloft with one hand and
vigorously slaps its buttocks with the other. A baby boy has been born.
The nervous father has already brought a basin of hot water upstairs. The
doctor's wife tenderly washes the little body and then carefully places it
beside its mother where it lies peacefully in her cradled arm. The mother,
now fully conscious and all pain forgotten, looks at her newborn son
rapturously. The doctor congratulates both parents and then adds with the
trace of a smile, "He must have been in a hurry to get here. He's about
two months early." He looks down at the little head with its eyes closed
and its mouth wide open, then speaks reassuringly, "Don't worry, he'll be
all right."
He puts his forceps in his bag with a few other items and snaps it shut.
His wife joins him beside the bed, both happy because of another trouble
free birth. The father is overjoyed that he now has a son and heir. The
mother is happy too and smiles, although a bit wanly because of her
ordeal. Her baby has added a new and wonderful meaning to her life.
Suddenly she exclaims, "He came before we could decide on a name. What
shall we call him?" There are a few moments of silence. The doctor's wife
speaks firmly. "Call him 'Neil.' It's a nice name." The others seemed
pleased. The mother continues, "My maiden name was 'Haupt' so we'll make
his middle initial 'H'." Then turning to the father, she explains, "This
custom is traditional in my family." He immediately signals his approval.
He looks at his son. "Neil H. Tasker," he intones slowly and reflectively.
"It has a good ring to it." It has been a most happy occasion. Yet, there
is a chilling factor present of which all are blissfully unaware.
The parents do not know it.
The doctor has no reason to suspect it.
The child has been born with cerebral palsy.
He is a spastic.
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