Dr. Henry E. Fledderjohann, M. D

If walls could talk, what a story the walls of the little T-shaped, slate-roofed, red-bricked, ivy-clad doctor’s office in the heart of New Knoxville could tell.  It was the headquarters of the still very much alive Dr. Henry E. Fledderjohann, M. D., of New Knoxville from 1880 until not so many years ago. He is not a spring chicken—will be 94 on his next birthday—but mentally still more alert than many folks half that age.

Born near New Knoxville in 1855, he attended the local school, graduated from New Bremen high school after 18 months and taught for two years, (Hoelscher and the New Bremen School) and three years later was graduated with honor from the medical school of the University of Pennsylvania, “where I had to work like a sinner to get through.” He practiced medicine in St. Marys, Ohio, two years, thereafter acquiring the office and practice of Dr. Zuelch, of New Knoxville, who left for Denver, Colorado, because of asthma.

Having been born at New Knoxville and being proficient in both high German and the local brand of “Plat-Deutsch”, and marrying a local girl, the late Emma Snethkamp Fledderjohann (who planted the ivy which to this day adorns the office), he entered upon a long and honored medical career. During his entire active practice he travelled via horse and buggy, “in the early years because my parents had never allowed me to learn to ride horseback, and later years because a horse and buggy permitted me utter relaxation in driving.” There would be so much to talk about with this pioneer. We asked concerning medical fees in those early days.

“For an office call in my early days of practice,” he said “the patient would usually get out of my office for 50 cents. For that he got a bottle of medicine or pills and my “gab”, and the fruit of my experience. And in medical results I did just very well. When I was called at their homes I charged them a dollar. Maternity cases were $5.00. Then to keep up with the medical prices elsewhere I charged $7.50. My how they squawked! So I lowered it to $7.00. Then later I charged $10.00 and upped office calls to $1.00.

“How long before confinement would they engage you?” I asked. “Sometimes a bashful young man would meet me on the street and say that they might be needing me in a month or two, but without telling me what for. At other times they would rush into the office when I had the office full and say: “My wife’s having a baby and you have just got to come at once,” and that would be the first I knew of it. Only about half of my patients would see me before hand.”

He has no idea how many babies he ushered into the world since registration was not required in the early days. He recalls three specific Sunday nights on each of which he delivered three babies, even mentioning who they were. Once he delivered three within an hour at Kettlersville.

He told of the Smallpox epidemic, Scarlet Fever epidemics, but worst of all, a certain Typhoid epidemic. “The latter almost wrecked me.” he mused. “Four adults died from it, and many others recovered but were left in a weakened condition. One after another these contracted pneumonia and began to die, and I was almost frantic because I had those lives on my hands and some were beyond help.

And sometimes people wouldn’t obey orders and insist on feeding my Typhoid patients “wurst” and cheese and other solids. I sometimes barked and growled and snarled at them like a dog, and some of them said I was a grouchy old cuss.”

“Were anesthetics in use when you started? Did you get any training in using them?” “Yes, I did,” he replied. “We used chloroform because ether was explosive and we sometimes operated by kerosene lamp. I remember when Mr.________ had his arm crushed in a corn shredder. They called me and I came on the run. His arm was a mangled bloody mess, almost made me sick to look at. All that I could do there was stop the bleeding. We bundled him in my buggy and set out for St. Marys, over-exerting my road horse in the process. We went to a doctor’s office there and gave him chloroform, trimmed the stub of his arm, and he got along fine.”

Dr. Fledderjohann reported that he operated in emergencies only, preferring to have others do it, that he is utterly adverse to “Medical Brag-a-boo” which says “I made the patient well”, that he abhors keeping patients in ignorance through the use of unintelligible terminology, that many patients have nothing the matter with them except acute hyper-activity of the imagination, that he has often wished that he had never seen the inside of a medical school. During the “flu” epidemic following Word War I, there were occasions when he saw as many as 100 patients in a day and went 48 hours without sleep and that he became so tired that he was unable to reach up to the upper shelves of his office for medicines. He told of “fumigation procedures” with sulphur fumes as the supposed germicide. “But it was actually not worth a darn.”---(he used the other word!) “But it was required by the board of health;” of vaccination procedures of the times. He recalled that for him the psychology which was most effective when vaccinating school children was to say to them, “Now I am going to write on your arm. Sure it will hurt some. But I think you are a big enough man to stand it.”---instead of saying “This won’t hurt at all” or “This will hurt just a teensie weensie witsie bitsie.”

Though no longer in active practice he still dispenses remedies which he found very effective through the years, and which he has had patented. While I was there a former patient stopped in for a supply of his poison ivy remedy, which, the doctor believes, “is the best there is”.

In his prime Dr. Fledderjohann was quick on the trigger on speech, impatient, with stupidity usually drove the fastest horse in town, drove like fury when on an emergency call or otherwise in a hurry, called a spade a spade, and sometimes shocked folks by drastic action and vitriolic pungent speech, when occasion demanded. He often went far out of his way to bring convalescent children choice articles of food or to do a kindness, and was zealous and conscientious in taking care of his patients. He was known in his more active years as a “dead shot” with a rifle.

“In those earlier days I always carried my rifle with me in in my buggy. While making the rounds of my patients, when I saw a hawk in a tree somewhere, I would stop and let him have it. Sometimes I’d take it to the farmer in whose woods I shot it, and he would be tickled. And, in season I would of course, often bring home fresh game.”

He still reminisces regarding his three months European tour through France, Switzerland, Italy and Germany. His three living children are Zella (Mrs. Ferd Eversman) of New Knoxville, with whom he makes his home, Frances (Mrs. Orin Schrolucke ) of Marion, Texas, and Walter, of New Bremen, Ohio. “Now if you’ll permit me, this old bear will go to his den and take a snooze.” he said in parting.

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by Doug Hoelscher

The house first occupied by Dr. Zuelch, and later by Dr. Fledderjohann, the brick doctor’s office built by Dr. Fledderjohann, and the summer kitchen south of house were placed on the National Register of Historic places in 1993 by the United States Department of the Interior. These three buildings, along with three others, which were moved onto the lot later, make up the New Knoxville Historical Society Heritage Museum.

A story about Dr. Fledderjohann that demonstrates his irritability has circulated for many years in New Knoxville. In 1907 a mother, a patient of Dr. Fledderjohann’s, was experiencing a difficult birth. The family unsuccessfully attempted to contact Dr. Fledderjohann by telephone, so they sent someone into town to summon the doctor. Dr. Fledderjohann’s short fuse was ignited by the fact that they could not reach him by telephone, so on his way to the patient’s residence, he threw a brick through the window of the telephone company with the idea of awakening the operator. The switchboard of the New Knoxville Telephone Company was located upstairs in the southwest corner of Ben Cook’s general store at 100 North Main Street, commonly known by later generations as “Adolph’s”.