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Show in my father's house/ 207 aroused our Nevada community against us. I'm not sure why he failed to plot a strategy to follow in the times when the mothers' lard-and-turpentine plasters or salt-and- vinegar poultices didn't cure us. Perhaps the failing was ego or myopia, for he was human as any of us. Perhaps he trusted no other doctor with the health of his family, for he bore a trenchant skepticism toward surgeons or medical doctors too anxious to cut away organs and dish out drugs instead of stimulating the body's natural processes of healing. And then, like any shaman, he was reluctant to share his province of secret knowledge with others. But most likely, the nearness of his dream of having us togehter within his beneficent aura again, that made him work doggedly toward reunion, ignoring the darts of probability poised in our direction. With Aunt Gerda and Aunt Helga at the white house and his naturopathy practice growing the dream was almost within reach, and he spoke of it often during his week-end visits, sighing his fatigue. "The state is making it as difficult as possible for rrte^" he reported. "They've tried everything under the sun to close me down. Next year I'll have to take state exams so I can prescribe drugs and perform minor surgery. I wonder what they think I've been doing all these years." My mother and I shook our heads, commisserating. My brothers weren't around to listen. They were always busy now with school or ball practice or work or girlfriends. My father went on. "The Healing Arts Committee is trying to take my license away - because of my record as a convicted |
