In Flew Enza by Nancy Carver

Two doctors consult on the porch of a small wood frame house on the outskirts of Joplin, Missouri. Inside, four young people lie on pallets on the floor of the main room.  

It’s 10:30 on Wednesday morning, November 27, 1918. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving day. The house is usually cold, having no insulation to speak of, but the children's mother has tacked blankets up over the windows and piled extra wood in the fireplace. As a result, the main room is absolutely sweltering. Even so some of the children shiver on their pallets. 

Madam Toastmaster, fellow toastmasters, I know what you're probably thinking. This is supposed to be an ice breaker speech. You were expecting something light-hearted and fun, so why I am telling this morbid tale of poor sick children and hot smoky houses? 

In my defense, how could I pass up the chance to share this story exactly 100 years after it happened? I really didn’t have a choice, did I? So let’s go back to the house.  

The doctors have tried every remedy they know, including a white powder and a breathing apparatus called a pulmotor, and now they’ve escaped to the porch for some fresh air while they discuss what to do next. But really, there’s nothing they can do. At 11 Susie takes her last breath. Six hours later, Clarence dies as well.  

The neighbor lady comes over to try to console the children’s mother while they wait for Susie and Clarence to be taken to the morgue, but at this particular point in time, Annie Carver is inconsolable. 

Annie's husband is unreliable at best, so the family is accustomed to sporadic stretches of hunger and homelessness. But the last few months have been worse than usual. 

In July they packed the wagon, hitched up the mules, and left Oklahoma to travel 200 miles to Missouri – six young people ages 8 through 20, and their parents, in search of work. On the way young Ashton came down with typhoid fever. He was too sick to travel, so they had to stop for a couple of weeks, and they almost ran out of food. 

In September they finally made it to Joplin and rented this tiny house. The oldest kids, Clarence and Susie, found jobs right away. And Orland claimed to have work also. But then one day he announced that he needed to leave. "Mother, kids, the government has ordered me to Virginia, to help with the war effort. I leave tomorrow.”  

The kids were shocked but not completely surprised. Their father had a habit of leaving like this. Nobody was sure where he went or what he did while he was gone. World War 1 was still going on, so maybe he did get called to Virginia.  

Soon after he left, their daughter Sina Belle complained of illness and took to her bed. A visiting nurse examined her and said, “My dear, I’m afraid you have tuberculosis!” The nurse helped Annie make arrangements for Sina to go to the TB hospital in nearby Webb City. 

Then, three weeks later, Susie came home with a cough, Clarence woke up with a fever, Robbie and Willie both complained of headaches. They all had the Spanish Flu, the super-sized worldwide pandemic that killed so many people in 1918. 

For those of you who are counting, that’s 6 kids having 3 different scary diseases all within a span of about 90 days.  

Despite these early living conditions, some of the remaining children grew up to live good lives. Their descendants are spread across the country. They have all the basics a modern family needs for survival — homes, cars, and … smartphones. 

Little Willie was my Dad. He was 8 at the time. After he retired, he sat down with a box of ball point pens and a stack of spiral bound notebooks, and he filled those notebooks with stories of his childhood. 

One of the things that stuck in his mind about 1918 was a little jump rope chant from the playground at school: “I had a little bird, its name was Enza. I opened the window, and in flew Enza.” It struck him as both innocent and sinister, all at the same time.

I inherited Dad's love of storytelling, and that's what brings me to Toastmasters. It's one thing to write stories down, but telling them out loud, to actual people, using your mouth -- that's a totally different deal and will require a lot of practice and feedback. 

Thank you for sharing Dad’s story with me today. I don't know about you, but I'm thankful for flu shots and Typhoid-free living conditions. And ballpoint pens. And spiral bound notebooks. 

Aunt Susie, Uncle Clarence, Rest in Peace.