Chapter I: Tiny Bitter Pills

ON MARCH 22, 1879, I WAS BORN IN SOUTH ORANGE, NEW JERSEY, the youngest of five children. My family lived on a 2½ acre lot on top of a moderate hill on the north side of Irving Avenue. Our house was square with a flat roof that collected all of the rain and snow water into a storage tank on the third floor. We used rain water for every purpose but drinking and cooking; our potable water came from a driven well 100 feet deep and 30 feet from the kitchen door. All in all, this fine old house had 16 rooms, 2 bathrooms and a full-size basement.

My oldest sister, Rebecca Whitlock Brush, was educated at Dearborn-Morgan School in Orange and then four years in Vassar College, after which she became a professor there. My second sister, Cornelia Brush (whom we always called Neal), graduated from Dearborn-Morgan but did not wish to go to college. She remained at home with Mother. My brother, William Whitlock Brush, graduated from high school and then took a course in Civil Engineering at New York University, earning his BS degree in 1893. At that time, he was in bad health and the doctor advised a long sea voyage. So off he sailed from New York on a full-rigged ship around Cape Horn, landing in San Francisco after 128 days at sea. All we knew of him during those 128 days was that his ship had been sighted twice and that the report by signal flag had come back All Well On Board. This was the only method of communication for ships in those days. After returning from his voyage, William felt that he could succeed better in his profession with a postgraduate degree. Back he went to NYU, receiving his CE in Civil Engineering in June 1894.

My other sister, Grace Louise Brush, who was two years older than me, also graduated from Dearborn-Morgan and then took a course in kindergartening. She taught kindergarten in Manhattan and Brooklyn until she reached the mandatory retirement age of 65. During those years, she became interested in genealogy and compiled a history of both the Brush and Whitlock families going back to 1609. She typed the record on 150-200 pages and made six copies—one for each of her nieces and nephews, and one for each of the two public libraries in Manhattan and Brooklyn. She had the pages bound in book form with the title: Brush and Others—Whitlock and Others. It was a monumental job and should be appreciated by all of her descendants.

My health as a child was average, I suppose, even though my nickname was Tiny until I turned 14 years old. Mother and Father were homeopaths and had at home a small case in which they kept 48 little bottles filled with small sugar pills and labeled with the name of the tincture that had been put upon them. One day I got hold of the box and the pills tasted so good that I ate every single one. Every pill from all 48 bottles. When Mother discovered what I had done, she hastily called the doctor and he rushed over. I had felt no inconvenience and can well remember the old codger with a solemn face and a beard that came nearly to his waist making what today would be called a very superficial examination. He told Mother not to worry, I would be alright. Mother said, "Why isn't he sick?" I shall never forget the old man's quickness of wit as he answered, "Well Mrs Brush, there was just enough of each kind of medicine in those pills to neutralize every effect." This was such a clear distortion of truth that my parents switched immediately to an allopathic physician.

Grace always nursed me when I was sick and I remember a time when Dr Runyon prescribed quinine for me. Quinine, as you know, is about the bitterest, most disagreeable drug that we have. She handed me one of the pills and I told her I could not swallow that big thing. I spat it out. She put it in my mouth again and said, "Swallow." I tried hard, but it would not go down and out it came again. Grace was a patient and economical soul so she put it back for a third try. By that time, it had softened and when it struck one of my teeth, the capsule broke open and spilled the quinine in my mouth. Since then, I have been able to swallow anything.

Mother and Father were strict Presbyterians who believed that Sunday was the Lord's Day and not one for recreation or work of any sort. We did have three meals, of course. After breakfast came Sunday school at 10 AM, church at 11 AM, diner at 1, Christian Endeavor at 7 and church again at 8 PM. If I failed to shine my shoes on Saturday, I went to Sunday school with dirty shoes; it was wrong to polish them. Between our midday meal and Christian Endeavor practically all we could do was read or go walking. No tennis, no baseball, no football, no horseback riding, no bicycling, no hunting, nothing. In spite of this strict ruling of activities, I think that all five of us had a happy childhood.


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