George had landed smack! - in a pile of windows and old sash which had been stacked alongside the building below (as if he hadn't wiped out enough windows that day). But miracle of miracles, he had survived. He was indeed sitting there serenely fishing out another cigar from his overalls when we all rushed around the corner. As he stood up however, he did grimace a bit, and it was decided that after such a fall - walk away or not - it was best if we got him to the hospital for a check-up.      

     To this he agreed - with one stipulation: he wanted to go back "home" to his own hospital and this was back in Haverstraw, sixty miles away. We tried to prevail upon him to seek similar services right here in Ridgefield - but he was adamant. Haverstraw was still "home" at that time (they were not living full time at Ridgefield yet), so it was decided that someone would drive him over. One of the other guys volunteered to do this, so George and this guy got in the van and pulled out for the long haul back to Haverstraw.

     For what happened next, I must rely on third party reports. After the excruciating ride over to Haverstraw, they pulled into the hospital. George limped in under his own steam and the doctors examined him. He had a broken collarbone! (I have often heard this is one of the most painful bone breaks there is...). George took this news in stride.

     "What's this pain in my back?, he then asked .

     "Dunno," said the doctor. "Roll over and I'll take a look".

     (Pause)

     "It's a screwdriver, sticking out of your pocket," he announced, handing it to George.

     The old man burst into laughter. Seems from the time he landed in the window-pile he had noticed a sharp a pain in his lower back. He thought he had broken a rib and it was poking out under his shirt. Rather than further upset all of us at the time, he had stayed mum - and ridden sixty miles in pain and in silence - with a broken collarbone and a screwdriver sticking into his backside!

     The Good Lord broke the mold and threw away the pieces sure, when he made old George Rhine....

     So they had him stretched out on the gurney in a small examining room, and announced they were going to have to give him an anesthetic before they could set the bone.

     "No way you're going to give me an anesthetic" he said.

     "But we have to," the doctor said, "the pain will otherwise be unbearable!"

     George ignored this caveat and cut to the chase.

     "What's involved here to do this?, he inquired.

     "Well, we've got to pull the two ends of the bone apart, you see - stretch your arm way out that is - so we can get the ends together again."

     "Well," says George, "what's all the fuss about? " Spying some old steam-radiator pipes running up between floor and ceiling in one corner of the examining room, he insisted they wheel him over within arm's grasp. Reluctantly, they complied. George heaved around and got a good grip on the pipes.

     "Okay sonny, he said, "go ahead and pull".

     So help me, the doctors and a nurse or two then pulled the gurney one way while George pulled the other and someone guided the broken collarbone into place, neat as pie!

     By evening - all was in turmoil at the Hospital. We received a call at Ridgefield from one of the nurses. Seems some of the West Point gang, who had been working at "headquarters" that day, had knocked off early and brought a box of cigars down to George, at his request. "We're beside ourselves over here, said the nurse, "your father has chased nurses and argued with the doctors all day long. And since noon, he has eaten a half a box of cigars! Do you think you could come and get him, please?"