More personal archeology

Good Grief. In the the spirit of this ancient post, here’s more on the never-ending digging out of my personal mess, I’ve just unearthed a red vinyl hot water bottle marked “Return to DHHC.” DHHC stands for “Dick Hall’s House Clinic.” Dick’s House was my college infirmary. (I think they call it the Health Center now.) I have a vague memory of being given this thing to hold ice to apply to an injury sometime in the late 1960s. Maybe it’s time to do what it says and bring it back.

And now the Dick’s House memories come flooding back. I was sent up once to get x-rays. (Guys who run well, run. Guys who don’t run well whine about injuries.) Checked in, sat down, and eventually the nurse, a burly former Navy corpsman, a really good guy we all liked but who took absolutely no nonsense, arrived with a wheel chair. “Hop in,” he said. I don’t need a chair,” I said. I’m only here for x-rays.” He glared down at my 132-pound self. “Get in the chair.” I got in the chair.

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