Today, I'll tell y'all about my cousin Wilkie Whitmire's stay in a big New Orleans hospital. It all began one night way back--I reckon around 1958 or 9. Wilkie got a real bad stomach ache and told his wife, Betty Faye Whitmire, that he thought he was going to die from the pain. She called old Doctor Biltwright--not the young one, the young one is a grindacologist. And as you know Wilkie didn't have none of the right parts to see him. Old Doctor Biltwright told Wilkie to take a couple of aspirins and call him in the morning. That wasn't good advice, 'cause the next morning Wilkie was on the early train to New Orleans and got checked in to this big hospital. They said he had a busted appendix. I looked it up in the library in a book with pictures and seen it was a little biddy thing hooked on to the bottom part of the entrails. They said it wasn't good for nothing but to catch watermelon seeds or fish bones--things that would just pass through anyway, don't you know.
Well, I don't believe there is nothing that ain't got a purpose. Just look at this. If Wilkie wadn't in that hospital bed in New Orleans, he would have been back in Harper and could have got hit by a truck or struck by lightning if we had had a storm, which we didn't, but you know what I mean. I was sitting right there when this big city doctor come in.
Tomorrow I'll tell you what he said about how bad Wilkie was.
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