A California Bonesetter's Autobiography

By Bill Howland M.D.

Orthopedic surgeon Bill Howland tells his story of growing up in western Massachusetts and eventually settling in Redding, California, where he practiced orthopedic surgery for twenty-eight years. In between those times there were trips to foreign countries as well as life in the cities of New Haven, New York City,San Francisco, and Denver. Duri

• Language: English
• Publisher: Authors Press
• Release date: Jan 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781643142395

Bill Howland M.D.

Retired Orthopedic Surgeon Justin Howland practiced orthopedics in Redding, California for 28 years. After graduating from Yale University, he recieved his MD degree from N.Y. Medical College. He interned at Kaiser in San Francisco, and his residency was at Fitzsimons in Denver After a tour in Europe and a stint as Chief of Orthopedics at Fort Dix, N.J., he and his family (five children) returned to California.

Book preview

Copyright © 2020 by Bill Howland, M.D.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

AuthorsPress

California, USA

www.authorspress.com

Contents

Chapter 1: Early Life

Chapter 2: Earning My Way

Chapter 3: Schooling

Chapter 4: Cynthia Hayward

Chapter 5: Medical School

Chapter 6: San Francisco

Chapter 7: The Army

Chapter 8: Overseas Duty

Chapter 9: European Trips

Chapter 10: Preparation for Boards

and Return to America

Chapter 11: Civilian Life

Chapter 12: Horses

Chapter 13: Events during 1972 to 1974

Chapter 14: Problems in 1976

Chapter 15: Camping

Chapter 16: Five Children Achieve Success

Chapter 17: China Trip and Cindy’s Broken Leg

Chapter 18: Genealogy and Denmark

Chapter 19: Barby Gard and Scotland

Chapter 20: Treatment of Whiplash Injuries

Chapter 21: Hospital Sex

Chapter 22: Redding Medicine

Chapter 23: The Stock Market

Chapter 24: Rotary

Chapter 25: Pat Kinyon and the Skiing Seminars

Chapter 26: Sailing

Chapter 27: Trip to Australia and New Zealand

Chapter 28: Personal History

Chapter 29: Crestview Associates

Chapter 30: Life After Surgery

Chapter 31: Orthopedic Courses

Chapter 32: Trip to Greece

Chapter 33: Yale Reunion

Chapter 34: Brother John

Chapter 35: Death of Friends

Chapter 36: Entertainment

Chapter 37: The Subaru

Chapter 38: Visits from the East

Chapter 39: Animals

Chapter 40: Piano with Don

Chapter 41: Trip to Turkey

Chapter 42: Property Upkeep

Chapter 43: Trip to Ireland

Chapter 44: Tennis

Chapter 45: Legal Matters

Chapter 46: Cindy’s Health

Chapter 47: New Neighbors

Chapter 48: Pilgrim Congregational Church

Chapter 49: Class

Chapter 50: Concluding Thoughts

Pictures

I dedicate this book to my wife Cindy.

I would like to express gratitude to my wife for tolerating myeccentricities and for editing this manuscript. Thanks go to Dr. Bill Magladry for his input and especial thanks to Helen Stratte and Bob Nash for providing me documents relative to the life of Louis Nash, M.D.

Although this is a work of non-fiction, certain names have been altered to protect their right of privacy.

Chapter 1

Early Life

It is with some misgivings that I have decided to put down my memories. However, most of the things that happened to me are in the distant past and lost to memory, which is lucky for the reader because relating one’s past can be quite boring to the uninterested. As I am now retired and find nothing better to do, I will jot down a few notes. After all, if Benjamin Cressy, my 4th great-grandfather, could write down what happened to him 200 years ago, then so can I. The opinions expressed in this book are those of the author based on his observations and ex periences.

I was born July 1st, 1933 in Northampton, Massachusetts, and was the third son for Willard and Dorothy. Our home was on Main Street in Southampton where my mother had grown up. The other three sons’ names were John, Robert (Bob), and Allan. My mother quite revered her father and decided that I should have his first name, Wilfred, as my middle name. However, Willard did not think highly of his father-in-law; thus the birth certificate (I discovered 21 years later) did not carry a middle name. However, that did not stop my mother, and I grew up telling the neighbors that my name was Justin Grandpa Wilfred Parsons Howland. In prep school I needed a monosyllabic nickname for quick passes in soccer, so began using the name Bill, thinking that was an acceptable derivation from Wilfred. Later, the name Bill helped me land a very talented and pretty woman, who didn’t find out until it was too late that I was really a Justin, a name which I always disliked. It wasn’t until I had to obtain a copy of my birth certificate for the Army that I discovered that I didn’t have a middle name at all. In the Army my name was Justin NMI (no middle initial) Howland!

For the first 12 years of my life I was introduced to the various activities of life on the farm. Southampton was a town of about 2000 people, and detractors would often remark that the population figure included the cows. The routine life on the farm consisted of rising at sunrise, putting the 25 cows in their stanchions, feeding them, milking them, and cleaning up their stalls afterwards. Luckily, I was too young to do important chores during those farm years, and in 1945 my father decided he was sick of farming, so he sold the cows and changed his vocation to selling farm equipment.

One of the reasons that Dad must have been happy to stop farming was that it was dangerous to work with large animals. He was once gored in the groin by a bull that he thought was too young and too small to do him any damage. I can recall that they would place a blindfold on the bull when they moved him out for breeding purposes. I later learned that the dairy bull is considered the most dangerous animal on the farm.

Dad wasn’t the only victim of accidents on the farm. My mother recalled that when she was just a child, she was standing on the barn floor when one of the hired hands threw a pitchfork down from the loft, and it pierced her thigh. Luckily, it didn’t injure any major structures. On another occasion in her childhood my mother was retiring to her bedroom with a candle to light the way. Her hair got in the flame and burnt it all away; when it grew back it was never as bright a red as before.

The wintertime was quite severe in western Massachusetts, which is no doubt another reason why Dad quit farming. I distinctly remember the farm hands, including my grandfather, Wilfred Parsons, having to wrap the water pipes in the barn with burlap bags and wetting them down with piping hot water brought from the house in an attempt to get running water to the cattle. My grandfather Parsons died in 1939, probably from pneumonia from the hard winters. Penicillin was not yet available.

At about age 9 I noticed that the routine of the day was disturbed. The hired men were hanging around the barn instead of haying in the fields. Dr. Trudeau, the veterinarian, arrived to check the animals’ health. That made a big impression on me, and for a while I thought it would be nice to be able to stop the normal routine of people’s lives like the veterinarian did. Later I thought that animals have no ability to express their gratitude, and decided to become a people’s doctor instead.

Also when I was still about 9 my father decided to let me back the car out of the barn. Unfortunately, there was quite an incline as soon as one exited from the barn floor, and one had to put the brake on with hard pressure. With my father screaming, Put the brake on! I finally depressed it hard enough and missed by 1inch crashing into the house. It was a while before I was allowed to try driving again except for use of the truck in low-low gear in an open hay field. Cindy remembers that she also was allowed to drive the truck in the field at age 9 while hay bales were loaded on the truck.

I must have been a trial to my parents because of the many devilish things I did. I remember filling the cows feeding trench with water (it was such fun depressing a cow’s water dispenser). The hired hand did not appreciate sweeping all that water out before the hay and grain could be dispensed.

The hired hand was mightily upset with me over another incident. It seems I persuaded his son to pick up discarded cigarette butts on the side of the road and light them for the 2 or 3 drags that were left. His son later spilled the beans, and I was told that I ought to be horse-whipped.

When I was too young to know better, I hurt my oldest brother, John, who was 6 years older than I. As a result of my mother having contracted German measles during the first trimester of her pregnancy, he was born totally deaf, blind in one eye, mildly mentally retarded, and with a cardiac lesion that sapped his energy. One day he and I were struggling for possession of the metal end of a calendar, and it accidentally poked him in the good eye. A trip to the doctor proved that it wasn’t a permanent injury, but my name was mud for a while.

Mitta D. Swasey (my great aunt) was widowed from Edward about 1920 and lived alone in a large house overlooking the town of Southampton. The town clock (located on the church steeple) could be seen from there, and my brother Robert (the pilot) was able to read the time, whereas I was lucky to be able to see the clock. The view encompassed the Connecticut Valley (so- called because the Connecticut River flowed through it), and in the distance was Mount Tom.

Aunt Mitta took a liking to me and often persuaded my parents to allow me to stay overnight at her house during ages 12 though 14. She had a neat barn in which was stored a surrey with a fringe on top. She died in 1945 after a miserable bout with colon cancer. One could always tell when her car was approaching, as her Cadillac had a musical horn.

Dorothy was never content to be simply a housewife and mother. She became a newspaper writer and Sunday artist. She already was a talented pianist and insisted that I take lessons from Miss Butterfield. I hated the recitals, but at least was able to play a simplified version of Barcarole from The Tales of Hoffman in spite of the butterflies.

She took lessons in writing and art; we still have one of her oil paintings after giving one apiece to each of our children. She was the town news reporter for many years (for the Springfield Union and the Daily Hampshire Gazette) and also had humorous stories about a fictional Mrs. Muddleday (actually based on herself) published in the local papers. On one occasion she goofed in reporting a birth. She stated that the woman’s husband had been overseas for two years; the retraction stated that he had been home for the previous Christmas.

Robert, 4 years older than I, had a love of flying from an early age. He soloed at age 16. He enjoyed sticking emblems of various airlines (United, Pan Am, etc.) on his door. One day I maliciously tried to remove them, which only left a mess of partially removed stickers. The result was another spanking by my father. Believe me, I learned the meaning of the poem:

When I was a little boy, just so high, my mother took a little stick and made me cry, Now I’m a big boy, Mama can’t do it, daddy takes a big stick and goes right to it.

Nevertheless, my parents did not need anything more than my father’s calloused hand to my rear to make a definite impression on me. Dr. Spock had not written his book yet, but even if he had, my parents were too practical to have paid it much mind.

One of the more pleasurable times of the year (for children) was the wintertime. When the Manhan river froze over, one could skate for 2 miles in one direction before coming to the more rapid water over which the ice would not be safe. I always thought it was such fun to be able to skate so far, so I invited my college roommates (Gig Young and Bill Weaver) on one Christmas vacation. I skated toward the edge of the river, not knowing just how thick the ice was, but Gig took the center. Unfortunately, the center gave way, but we were able to save him from his watery predicament.

I wondered in later years why this particular roommate did not appreciate New England winter sports as much as I did. He didn’t do very well on the trip to Mount Mansfield in Stowe, Vermont, either. I had been going there almost yearly since I was on the prep-school ski team. He said he had done some skiing in his home state of Wisconsin, so I took him up the chair lift. Upon arrival to that lofty elevation, he declared that the hills in Wisconsin did not prepare him for this kind of situation. I led him slowly down the toll road, but even so, his skiing ability was so deficient that he ended up with a sprained ankle.

Growing up on the farm had its advantages in terms of appreciating animals. I was required to become a member of the local 4-H club, and my project was to take on the care of a newborn calf. For those who haven’t tried it, it is a unique experience to teach a week-old calf how to drink out of a pail of milk. One must hold the upper snout firmly and bring it into the liquid until the calf gets the idea that milk is just about as tasty that way as from his mother’s teat. The hired hand assured me that if I lifted the calf every day, I would someday be strong enough to lift a regular cow. I must have missed a day or two because there came a time when the calf was too heavy for me.

One of the advantages of being a member of the 4-H club was attendance at Camp Howe for two weeks. For the first time I learned what a scheduled day was. They taught us to make lanyards in arts and crafts; they taught life- saving techniques in swimming class; we learned several interesting songs around the campfire, and we were taught to make our beds and keep the place neat. Mail-call was one of the best times of the day for this lonely camper in his first time away from home. I had one trip to the infirmary for removal of a tick; luckily, it didn’t carry Lyme disease.

Growing up in a family where the work ethic and the need to earn money was considered important, I had various jobs. The first one was working for Mrs. Brewer—hoeing her garden for 25 cents an hour. She was such a prohibitionist that she demolished a box that her groceries came in because it advertised beer. Other jobs included painting a neighbor’s basement, delivering newspapers, mowing lawns, and working as a carpenter’s assistant.

At one time there was an active lumber mill near my brother’s present home; associated with that building there was a dam that created a large mill pond. During the summer months we would go swimming there since Earl (Mary’s father) had a big house (once a tavern) and a well-kept lawn right up to the edge of the mill pond. I stole a kiss from Mary while we were both swimming under water. Her father, who was acting as lifeguard, never knew about it. Both the mill building and dam have been sold, since Bob and Mary did not like the liability of these structures.

I took Mary to the Yale freshman prom, but her father insisted on driving her down to New Haven (80 miles) and back, which was rather foolish since the dance hours were from 10 P.M. to 2 A.M. About midnight I decided that enough was enough, and I let her father take her back to Southampton. She later married my brother Bob.

Allan, my younger brother by 6 years, was always something of a pest. Just as Bob did not want his younger brother (me) hanging around when he was with his friends, neither did I. During his late teens he began to have trouble thinking logically. I can remember one conversation where Bob and I listened to him give an argument in favor of being a nonconformist. We both agreed with him that a person should develop nonconformist attributes, but in society one has to conform to certain rules, such as stopping for red lights at intersections and obeying the police. He disagreed and went off by himself. Later he was dismissed from a junior college because he was trying to convince the administrator that he was Jesus Christ. Mom would send Allan with Dad on his business trips. At one time Dad was selling steel buildings and had to create one at the Eastern States Exposition in Springfield as an example. He took Allan along to please Mom, but was quite frustrated at Allan’s inability to follow directions. On trips through New England, Allan proved quite a problem, since he would interfere with a sale by blurting out something quite irrelevant. The final straw occurred when he displayed a toy gun to a bus driver in Northampton; she notified the police, and eventually Allan was placed in a halfway house where he has remained to this day.

On one occasion Mom wanted me to do something to help Allan, so I reluctantly made an appointment with his psychiatrist in Holyoke; he confirmed my suspicions that there was no hope for a cure of Allan’s schizophrenia. Knowing that telling this to Mom face-to-face would not be the best way, I wrote a letter explaining the diagnosis and prognosis. Furthermore, I stated that Allan would probably end up in the state hospital for the insane. My father saw the letter first and agreed with it; mother, however, felt quite different, and after a few tears were shed, told me that I had ice-water in my veins and did not love my brother. Ultimately, he had to be put away, but I did help to get him on Social Security.

During the early years John was sent to Clarke School for the Deaf but was allowed to come home during the summer months, against the advice of the administrators. I believe my mother must have felt guilty about his very disabling problems. Apparently, during pregnancy she contracted German measles when they visited some relatives (Adams) in Rochester, New York Feeling sorry for John led my mother to indulge him, hoping thus to shield him from the trials and tribulations of ordinary life. He grew up not learning to be fiscally responsible. When wealthy Aunt Mitta died in 1945, she left a trust fund for John. Thereafter, he was allowed