The first sanatorium I was sent to, the Pines, out toward Texas from Shreveport, was a warehouse where you were sent to await death. There were no pines,only some 15 foot high scrub oaks. There was, I am sure I recall accurately, no medications, and smoking was not discouraged. Older men would wander in with their Dixie cup spittoons bragging about how many times they had watched the leaves change. We could see from the L of the building as cooks carried off big items like hams. Why did I stay there two months without telling anyone I was there?
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