Sifoddling Along

By Marilyn Carnell

Early in 1940, nine-year-old Billy Max Carnell learned that I was on the way. A waggish family friend proposed a very attractive offer - he could trade this coming interloper for a pony. Billy Max readily agreed to the deal. However, when I arrived, he changed his mind and decided I was worth keeping. From that moment on, he was my guardian and friend.

As a teen, it was his habit to lie on the floor and read the newspaper. As a toddler and young child, I learned to climb on his back and look over his shoulder while he read the comics to me. He was endlessly patient with my intrusion into his world.

In August, 1946 the last major epidemic of polio raged throughout the country. I was very sick and when I was to begin school in September, the Dr. said I could not walk the three blocks to the school. Billy Max’s back was once again a solution. He carried me to and from school, so I didn’t miss the excitement of the first day of a new adventure for me.

The years passed. He graduated from high school, went away to college to become a forrester, married, and after graduating enlisted in the Marine Corps as a young officer. After his service, he worked as a forrester for the Missouri Conservation Commission. While working in Camdenton, Missouri he became friends with a couple of young medical doctors and decided to use his G.I. Bill as an opportunity to become a medical doctor himself. It was an unfulfilled dream, because earlier there was not enough money to make that possible.

Thus, when I went to college, he was at the University of Missouri in medical school and once again my protector. I once had a date with a young man that Bill knew was likely to take advantage of my innocence. Although I thought we had a good evening, Tom did not call me for a second date. I few weeks later I encountered him on campus and asked why I hadn’t heard from him. He told me that Bill promised to beat the tar out of him if he touched his little sister.

Bill finished medical school and his internship and became a general practitioner in Camdenton by joining the two doctors who had encouraged him to go back to school.

More years went by and Bill was always a pillar for me to lean on. After a miserable divorce and a sense of being lost, Bill said to me: “Come on home, honey. They can’t whip us all.” That reassurance was enough for me to pick up the pieces of my life and find purpose.

Bill was a storyteller and relished regaling others about the funny or dramatic experiences he had in his practice. As an example:

His office in Buffalo, Missouri was constructed in two sections a reception/waiting room and the treatment section where patients were seen. He had a partner who apparently had disappointed a patient in some way, so he and his father stormed in through the back door, armed with automatic rifles and took everyone hostage. The partner slipped away, abandoning the situation. As Bill told it, he knew he had a pistol in a drawer in the counter he was standing behind. The problem was it was to his left and if he shot with his left hand he would have to shoot to kill. Rejecting that option, he resorted to his old Marine training and in his most commanding voice began shouting at the men to put down their weapons. “Now!” They followed his orders and the day was saved. Needless to say, the partnership was over.

Bill loved to hunt and fish. He was the happiest in the rough woodlands and streams of the Ozarks. In early October, 2008 Bill and a friend floated down Big Sugar Creek to Pineville. I followed him to town early that morning so he could park his car and gave him a ride back to the put in place for their boat to enjoy a day outdoors. As I left, I hollered over my shoulder “I love you.” That declaration has been an enormous comfort to me ever since as three days later, Bill died of heart attack. My guardian was gone.