Our daddy, W. C. McGuire, had experienced years of trouble with both a hernia and nasal problems. For his hernia, he had to wear a "rupture truss;" and the nasal problem likely was a deviated septum or perhaps a growth in the nasal passage, for which there was no ready remedy. In the summer of 1937, Daddy decided to take the bull by the horns and admit himself to the Veteran’s Hospital in Lincoln, Nebraska.

His hospitalization and treatment were paid for by the U.S. Government’s "Aid for Veterans of WW I." If we had not had that, Dad would never have gone. Too expensive.

Lincoln was about 75 north of Barnes, and I think Dad must have taken a bus to get there, because we had the car at home. Sister Charlotte was the only licensed drive in our household at the time, and she was only just learning.

I remember our Aunt Nelle Rogers coming to visit for a week or two, and Charlotte took all of us for a ride one Sunday afternoon. We were driving along, counting the cows and horses and watching the countryside, when we came to a low hill. The hill was not steep at all, but on the way up Charlotte did not give the car enough gas, and the engine died. We started rolling back down the hill, and Sis was having trouble finding the brake. She did stomp on it furiously after a little while, but that wasn’t enough for Aunt Nelle, who was sitting in the middle of the rear seat surrounded by kids.

Aunt Nelle, by George, was scared spitless! She leaned forward in her seat and reached for the door handle, all the time screeching, "STOP THE CAR! STOP! STOP! I WANT OUT NOW!!!"

Charlotte did get the car stopped, and out hustled Aunt Nelle. None of the rest of us were too bothered about it, by the way. But Aunt Nelle stood clear over by the roadside and watched as Charlotte got the motor going again and drove without incident to the top of the hill. Aunt Nelle finally arrived at the top on foot and rejoined us. By that time we were all laughing; even our dear Aunt though it was somewhat humorous. But that rolling backward, not knowing where we were headed and feeling out of control, had scared her badly.

Well, Daddy’s operation went okay . . . then he contracted pneumonia. The hospital called to tell Mother that Daddy wouldn’t be home "in two or three weeks" as had been originally projected. He would need to stay hospitalized to recover from the pneumonia.

Soon another call came from Lincoln: Daddy was not recovering from the pneumonia, and there was a good chance he would not make it.

Mom seemed not to worry, but I’m sure she did. We kids talked about it. "What if Daddy dies? What then?" it was common in those days to farm out the children in a large family to helpful relatives. That would mean our family would have to break up to survive, and we did not like the thought of that one bit.

We were still getting Dad’s meager "salary," and all of us were working together to maintain the garden, care for the chickens and milk our cow, Flossie. I don’t recall who preached for Dad on Sundays; maybe we only held Sunday School.

Eventually, though, Daddy returned home to us. It was occasion for much joy. And we could all take turns wearing his old rupture truss for fun. He did not need it any more.