Hong Kong Flu and the Bean Sprout
It was September 1968, and my cousins and I were spending time at our grandparents’ farm in Rixeyville, Virginia. At twilight, we raced around the backyard playing Tag, Red Light/Green Light, and Hide & Seek. I was laughing and running at full speed when I was hit with a wave of nausea so intense it stopped me cold. A few seconds later, I lost my dinner right there in the grass.
I was led into the house, cleaned up, and put to bed—separated from the other kids. By morning, I had a fever, chills, and strange muscle aches. My grandmother offered food and drink, but nothing stayed down. I discovered that the only way I could avoid the nausea was to lie perfectly still, flat on my back or side.
Later that day, my aunt came to take my cousins home—to stop the spread of whatever this was. I was heartbroken. Our time together was cut short, and I felt awful in more ways than one.
Over the next few days, the fever finally broke. The coughing and chills eased. But the nausea stayed. I still couldn’t sit up or eat without getting sick. Even a sip of water sent me running. Lying perfectly still was the only relief I had. For three more days, I drifted in and out of sleep and overheard my grandmother giving updates to my parents on the phone. I heard her consulting with the local physician, Dr. Boldridge—a name I remembered. He had stitched up my forehead years earlier after I slammed into a door jamb while sliding in my socks on the hardwood floor.
On the fifth day, I was lying on the living room couch watching Bewitched when my mother and father arrived, along with my other grandparents. Judging by their expressions, I looked terrible. My clothes hung loosely, my energy was gone. My 19-year-old uncle had returned from Basic Training at Fort Ord, California the week before, and was preparing to ship out to Vietnam. He walked into the living room, lifted the blanket covering me, and shook his head with what looked to me like an expression of hopelessness. At this point, I wondered if I was dying.
There was a flurry of discussion. Someone mentioned hearing about a new strain of influenza on the evening news. My grandmother chased the neighbor off their shared party line so she could call Dr. Boldridge again. I overheard her mention the “Asian Flu of ’57,” which the doctor apparently thought this new virus resembled.
That evening, my father and his parents left, and my mother stayed behind to care for me. The next morning, exhausted and frustrated, she tried to force a turning point. She made pancakes and poured a glass of orange juice, then insisted I sit at the table and eat. I managed two bites and one sip. You can guess what happened next. From the bathroom, I could hear my mother crying.
That was the breaking point. Grandma got on the phone again, and arrangements were made to meet Dr. Boldridge—not at his office, but at the home of his son, Johnny.
I was laid flat in the backseat of my grandmother’s Chevy Corvair for the drive. When we arrived at Johnny’s farmhouse, the yard was swarming with kids. I was carried inside and placed on the living room couch. A few curious children tried to follow us in but were promptly redirected. Still, some small faces pressed against the window glass behind the couch, watching me like I was an exhibit.
Just as I was wondering if all these children belonged to Johnny, he stepped into the room and announced, “Daddy’s here!”
The House Call
Outside, I saw Dr. James Russell Boldridge slowly stepping out of an old car. He wore a brown suit and tie, a hat, and carried his worn leather doctor’s satchel. What struck me most was how slowly he moved—baby steps, cane in hand, children swirling around him like he was a hometown celebrity. Maybe he was.
He finally entered the house to a flurry of greetings. With warmth and calm, he opened his bag and began the examination: stethoscope, tongue depressor, thermometer, penlight. He moved slowly but methodically, checking my eyes, ears, lungs, abdomen, and reflexes—and cracking the occasional joke.
DOCTOR: “Did that hurt?” he asked after pressing on one particularly sore spot.
ME: “Yes!”
DOCTOR: “Aww, that hurts everyone. It would be strange if it didn’t!”
ME: “Am I going to get a shot?”
DOCTOR: “Only if you insist.”
ME: “Am I dying?”
DOCTOR: “Not until you look older than me.”
He was funny, kind, and gentle—but thorough. Just as he was packing up, he paused, picked up his light, and asked me to tilt my head back. He peered into my nose.
“Just checking,” he said. “There’s a condition that runs in your family.”
I was too weak to ask questions, but I lay there thinking, What kind of family nose condition? He never explained.
Instead, he gave my mother and grandmother instructions: boil a pan of water for three minutes, let it cool, and have me drink it slowly throughout the weekend. If things didn’t improve, I’d need to go to the hospital because I was becoming dehydrated. The word “hospital” was enough to grab my attention.
But before we left, he sat down beside me with a twinkle in his eye.
“Let me tell you a story,” he said.
The Bean Sprout
“One day, a lady named Blanche called me. Her two-year-old daughter had terrible swelling on her face and nose. I rode out to the farm on horseback. The girl’s face was red and swollen, but she wouldn’t let anyone near her. I did what I could, then had her parents hold her still while I looked up her nose. You’ll never guess what I found: a bean. A real garden bean she’d shoved up there. It had been in so long, it had sprouted! It was dark and damp enough to grow.”
He paused for effect, then added proudly, “You know who that little girl was? Your grandmother!”
My grandmother, who had been standing nearby, gently corrected him.
“Doc, it was my sister Elsie. Not me.”
Without missing a beat, he turned to me and said,
“Ah, well. Then it was your Aunt Elsie. But it still runs in the family!”
We returned home. I drank the boiled and cooled water, as instructed. Slowly, I recovered. I’ve never forgotten Dr. Boldridge—or the story of the bean sprout in Aunt Elsie’s nose.
And eventually I realized that he never really saw anything unusual up mine.
© 2026 Terry Housel. All rights reserved.
Originally published at EnchantedGreenAcres.com.
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