Growing
up in Guilford during the forties, fifties and sixties
was like having a checkerberry ice cream soda at Mr. Douden's
Drug Store on a hot summer day: cold, sweet and special.
We kids had our problems. We suffered our growth pangs.
We stumbled through adolescence and then one day, each
in our own time and way, had to step up to the line and
face adulthood. Some very special people blessed us in
our time and place. They were ordinary people whose love
and caring for us made them extraordinary people.
One
of those extraordinary people we were fortunate to share
with older folks was Dr. Elisabeth C. Adams because she
cared for everyone. She never seemed
to sleep. She never seemed to be on vacation. She was
everywhere and everything to everyone who needed help,
and she never let us down.
Dr.
Adams served Guilford for many years in several official
capacities, such as Health Director, Police Surgeon and
Medical Examiner. She was the most petite person in town,
but the only thing people looked up to more often was
the clock on the First Church steeple.
As
kids we would watch in awe as Dr. Adams would stand eyeball
to belt buckle with a 250 pound, 6' 3" volunteer
fireman, flames and sparks crackling around them, as she
reprimanded him for not following proper safety procedures
- and he would listen!
We
would stop in the middle of third down and two on the
Green, look at each other and snicker, as her Volkswagen
Bug beat the ambulance to an accident on Route One. Everyone
in town knew that the car with no driver - she could barely
see over the steering wheel - was Dr. Adams, and everyone
made way.
Every
building contractor in town knew that he had to wait for
Dr. Adams' approval before he covered the new septic tank,
or he'd have to dig it back up, and it had better be the
correct distance from the well, too!
Two
or three times a week, Dr. Adams would come into my parents'
grocery store, usually in the evening when it wasn't busy.
She would say, "Seven bags tonight!" My mom
would line up seven large grocery bags on the counter.
Into each would go a couple of bananas and a bunch of
grapes, which Dr. Adams always insisted had to be washed
and dried carefully. My father would cut a pound of sliced
meat and a pound of cheese for each bag while I picked
out seven loaves of bread. Next, Dr. Adams would quickly
cruise the aisles and select coffee for five and tea for
two, peanut butter and some jelly and crackers. She would
sometimes choose sugar, always milk, and a pound of number
nine spaghetti for each bag. Then we would all load the
bags into the back seat of her "Bug" and away
she'd go in a swirl of dust, Guilford's first, one-person
"Welfare Department," to deliver her bundles
of nourishment along with her medical care. My dad never
had to send Dr. Adams a bill. She would always give him
more than enough money and would continuously maintain
a credit in her account. She never, in twenty years, asked
for a tally.
One
day, in the fall of 1952, I was sitting with a family
friend, Miss Marie Griswold, who lived in the Octagon
House on Fair Street with her ninety-three-year-old mother.
Marie was staring out the window, deep in thought. Her
mother, small, frail, and very ill, was lying on the couch,
her breathing raspy and harsh. I wanted to be with Marie,
but I didn't know what to say, so we sat in silence while
I pretended to read my social studies homework.
At
about five o'clock Dr. Adams arrived. She came right in
without knocking, black bag in hand. She touched Marie
gently on the shoulder and went immediately to work examining
Marie's mother. The sound of breathing that came from
the couch had become very raspy, its labor more intensified.
Dr. Adams finished her examination and motioned for me
to go out to the hall with her. She closed the door carefully
and placed both hands on my shoulders. Then she looked
me straight in the eyes and asked in a quiet but firm
voice, "Young man, have you ever been present when
someone has died?"
My
eyes wide, I could only sputter, "No!"
"Well,"
she said, "I don't think you should experience that
just yet. You collect your books and run along back to
the market. I'll stay with Marie, and, please, don't you
say anything to anyone just yet." I, of course, did
as I was told.
Dr.
Adams came by the market, just before we closed, at about
seven forty-five, to tell my parents that Marie's mother
had just passed away. On the way out to her car, she whispered
to me, "It was very good of you to visit with Marie
today. It meant a great deal to her that you were there."
Riding my bike home in the dark, I cried all the way,
but I still felt so grown up.
In
the summer of 1956, Guilford didn't have anything like
911. Therefore, when I cut my wrist with a wood saw just
after midnight, my mother quickly called GL 3-2717, and
Dr. Adams answered immediately. "You get him right
up here and come straight in. The door's unlocked."
Dr.
Adams cleaned the wound and placed on the table some thread
and a little curved blade that looked like a fishhook
without the barb. As she prepared her materials, she spoke
in clipped, short statements. "Okay, this is going
to hurt a little bit. But I know you'll be brave and not
fuss. If you cooperate, it will only take a minute or
two." She was right. It hurt. My white knuckles and
I didn't flinch or make a sound, and it only took her
a few quick motions. I still have the scar and the knowledge
that fatigue causes risk and sometimes loss.
On
an afternoon in 1964, with a high fever and an achy feeling,
I dragged myself into Dr. Adams' office. She diagnosed
strep, told me what to do, and called for my prescription.
A month went by. I was well again but had never received
a bill. I went to Dr. Adams' office one day and asked
the nurse if I could please pay my bill. She asked me
to have a seat. A few minutes later, Dr. Adams scurried
out of one room on her way to another, and, in a quiet
voice, stated, "Listen, young man. You're just home
from the service, a veteran, and now you're back in college.
You can pay me later in life, but right now you've got
work to do, and I have patients waiting, so you run along
home and give your little boy Chris a hug from me."
She
did that for so many people we wondered how she ever made
enough money to pay her own bills. We pondered a lot about
this extraordinary little lady, who never wanted any recognition.
We couldn't even have a birthday party for her because
no one knew the date of her birth or how old she was.
In
the late sixties, when the "North Junior High School"
was being built, I presented to the Board of Education
the idea that we should name both junior high schools
after worthy citizens. The Board appointed a committee
to research the possibilities and make its recommendations.
Mrs. Marjorie Guiles, Joel Helander and I met to begin
our work. Mrs. Guiles asked if we had any preferences.
Since I suggested Abraham Baldwin for the "North
School," Mrs. Guiles suggested someone more contemporary
for the "South School." Joel Helander immediately
suggested Dr. Adams. Everyone's face lit up; no explanation
was necessary. It was unanimous. The meeting was adjourned
after thirteen and a half minutes.
Dr.
Adams loved her school. She treasured her family of students,
Duncan Craig and all the staff. She truly enjoyed their
successes and was always available to help in her own
unique way.
On
November 1, 1990, after having lived in Guilford for forty
years, and recently retired, Dr. Adams wrote in a note:
"Not until I retired did I realize that I was married
to medicine. Now I feel like I've had a fortieth wedding
anniversary! Furthermore, you are claimed as cousins,
the more treasured when children, grandchildren, nieces
and nephews are lacking for me."
On
July 13, 1994, Dr. Adams called her school and asked the
secretary, Mrs. Larson, if she had mailed her the list
of students who had made the honor roll for the last marking
period. Mrs. Larson assured her that the list had been
mailed, and Dr. Adams was pleased, because she was eager
to write her personal note to each of those hard working
students, as had been her custom for almost twenty-five
years.
Those
students will not receive her notes now, but they should
always remember that they were in her thoughts on the
last day of her life - just another "ordinary"
day in the life of Dr. Elisabeth C. Adams, an extraordinary
legacy for all of us.
Written by Carl A. Balestracci Jr.,
a lifelong Guilford resident, Former First Selectman,
Selectman,
retired educator and former principal of the Dr. Elisabeth
C. Adams Middle School
