II
A few weeks later Kern plunged into the campaign of 1906 with his usual vigor, contracting a cold which his weakened physical condition made it impossible for his system to throw off. He began to lose weight, his voice became chronically husky, and after a thorough examination his physician whispered the ominous word—tuberculosis in its incipiency. But with his usual determination he prepared to battle for his life. He had devoted too much of his time to his political activities to have accumulated money, and at the age of fifty-seven his determination to get well, strengthened by his passionate desire to be of further service to his boys of six and seven, he set out for Dr. Von Ruck’s sanatorium at Asheville, North Carolina, about three weeks before Christmas. His letters of that period reflect his intense love for his family. All thought of worldly honors were put aside and his one hope was to be spared for a few years more with his wife and children and in their service. A separation even under less unhappy circumstances was always hard, and it was with a heavy heart that he resigned himself to the inevitable exile. As Christmas approached the pain of the separation was accentuated by the knowledge that he could not share in the home festivities. The day after Christmas he wrote home:
“On yesterday afternoon I received the box and was greatly rejoiced to have the pictures of you all and to have your several letters. The book was pleasing, the cigars good, and the trousers welcome. Christmas passed off all right and we had a great dinner. I send you a menu card. You mustn’t think we have that sort of a meal every day, but we do pretty well—get plenty of eggs and milk, corn bread and buttermilk. On Christmas evening the young people here—patients—turned themselves loose, singing, playing and raising cain, and you wouldn’t have thought this much of a hospital. Yesterday was a beautiful day. I was out most of the time.... I had a long letter from Judge Hackney. It was full of sympathy and affectionate in character and I was deeply touched by it. Also had a similar letter from my old friend, Dan Simms of Lafayette. Had Julia’s letter and enjoyed it very much. I have your pictures ranged around my room, so that it looks a good deal like home.
“It is cloudy to-day but pleasant. I walked a long ways this morning, and am going for another walk this evening.... I am anxious to hear how you got along on Christmas, and whether my dear litle ones were pleased with what Santa Claus did for them. I am uneasy to hear of dear little Billy’s continued sickness with cold. Don’t you think you had better consult a doctor about him? It seems too bad to keep him in the house all winter. I am getting to be a great believer in fresh air, and I can’t believe that it is good for a child as full of life as he is to keep him in a hot room all winter. Let him have fresh air and sunshine whenever possible.
“I am feeling very well to-day and the doctors say I am doing nicely, though they can’t give me much definite information yet. I have the same routine every day, and while it is a little monotonous sometimes the time slips by pretty rapidly. I am glad Christmas is over, and hope that next Christmas we may all be together and be well. It will be a happy day for me when I can be with my dear ones again, and be strong enough to work and make up for all this lost time. Tell John, Jr., that I enjoy his letters very much. He writes just like a man. I know I am going to be very proud of him. Tell Billy that he doesn’t write quite as plainly as John, but that I read his letter over and over again just the same. With lots of love for all of you, I am, as always, your husband, papa, father and daddy.”
During the three months that he was there he endeared himself to all who came in contact with him by the sweetness of his disposition, and even the physicians were impressed with his reluctance to being a burden to them. He passed his time following the doctor’s instructions. He read much light literature from the library of the sanatorium and wrote long letters home, not forgetting individual letters for the children. His rare gift of entering into the thoughts of childhood is illustrated in his letters to John, Jr.
“My Dear Little Man:
“Your nice letter came this morning—also mother’s postcard telling me how nicely Billy was doing. It made me feel mighty good to hear that Billy was feeling so well after his operation, and to see what a fine letter you can write, and how well you are doing at school. I know you will be a good boy and help mother all you can while I am away. You must pay lots of attention to dear little Billy while he is sick, and help entertain him. You must also watch sister, and not let her run around too much and stay up late at night. Tell mother she must take good care of herself and not get sick, for we can’t afford to have more than two sick at one time.
“I am getting better, but it will be some time before I can come home. But I get very homesick and want to see you all so badly I hardly know what to do. The weather is still warm and sunshiny. I wish you were here to go walking with me over the hills and through the woods. We would have a good time. They have a lot of turkeys and chickens on the grounds here. Yesterday a turkey gobbler and a rooster got to fighting, and they had a great time. Then afterward the rooster came around where the turkeys were and four big gobblers got after him and got him down, and were about to kill him when some of the boys drove him away. Then the rooster got up and crowed just as if he had whipped them all.... I had a letter from Judge Anderson this morning saying that my cases in his court could wait until I got home to be tried. I must close now to get this in the mail. Tell mother and sister and Billy that I love them very much. You know that I love you, don’t you? You must write as often as you can and take care of things while I am away. With lots of love, I am, your
Father.”
During his Asheville days Mr. Kern spent every moment that he could in the open air and soon developed into a great pedestrian, trudging all alone over the hills and through the woods and into Asheville, where he made friends and renewed old friendships. His appetite returned and he slept well. As he felt his strength returning his anxiety to get back home and in the harness intensified. Toward the middle of February we find him writing in homesick vein to John, Jr.
“My Dear Little Man:
“I had your picture of Hiawatha in her tent, and also the other pictures made by you and I think they are fine. I am very proud of you, and know you are going to be a good boy and a good man. I can’t tell you how much I want to see you and dear little Billy and mother and sister. I am very lonesome away down here by myself. But it will only be a few weeks until I will be at home, and I will be so happy to be with you all.
“I am feeling pretty well this morning. It rained yesterday, but the sun is shining now and that always makes me feel good. You must not let Billy forget his daddy. I expect you will both be grown so I will hardly know you. Kiss mother and sister and Billy for me, and then make them kiss you for your father.”
In March he left the sanitorium and went home for a visit, without being dismissed, and did not return until his last illness ten years later. The separation under such tragic circumstances had served to draw him even closer to his home and family, and it is probable when he crossed the threshold of his home on that March day in 1907 it was with the determination to put behind him political aspirations and to conserve his strength for the service of those dependent on him. Little could he have thought at the time that in scarcely more than a year he would be again drawn into the vortex of intense political activity, and that his career as a national figure was just in the dawning.