It was the San Event. Everything timed back to last year’s or forward to next year’s Picnic. Unless death actually had his finger poked into you, no one able to stand on his two feet missed the Picnic; otherwise he would be considered a funker. The Picnic lingered on patients’ tongues from one year to the next, a function prefaced by lively activity and anti-climaxed by sniffs and rheumatics. Lungs are slow healers. Some patients…
Grace Willet read the letter while lying upon her bed during the noon Rest Hour. “How awful, you poor darling, incarcerated in that lung place. How can you bear it? but, for the sake of others—of course. If (scratched out and when substituted) you do come out, you will have to be so frightfully careful, careful for yourself, careful for others.” Grace Willet scrunched the letter, wrung it like wash, flung it under the bed. “I am going to…
Two little maids in scarlet, and very snowy as to caps and aprons, staggered onto the Circular Porch, one bearing a heavy tray. On it was an enormous “Brown Betty”, nests of cuddling cups, plates of thick bread and butter. The other maid was provided with a folding table. Tea was served on the Circular Porch. ‘Semis’ waited for tea before going back to their rooms. Tea was optional. ‘Ups’ relished its reviving warmth on…