Learn more about reba

Dr.  Greene of the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, Department of The History of Medicine has documented the work done by Reba in her early days a Nebraska Psychiatrics Institute (NPI) in lectures, articles and a book.

The article "When Television Was a Medical Device",  HUMANITIES, Spring 2017, Volume 38, Number 2, opens with Reba's presentation to the New York Academy of Science in  1966.  

Dr. Greene further explored Reba's role in the emergence of what we now call "telemedicine" in Chapter 4: The Amplified Doctor of his book,   The Doctor Who Wasn’t There: Technology, History, and the Limits of Telehealth  (University of Chicago Press, 2022).

Reba had several poems published in her college annual as well as selected for the National Poetry Anthology published by the National Poetry Association.  Here are some she penned.

Count Not the Years (1950)

How many years is old? Can it be known

by counting frosted hairs upon a head?

Seen in dim eyes? 

By tired, worn hands be shown, 

which lead no more, but now in turn are led.

How long does man stay young? Is it inferred 

from dancing steps or from the merry smile, 

a trifle arrogant, which says, "Absurd!

Life's a gay adventure, not a weary trial!"

There is a kind of youth that does not fail.

It dwells forever in the young of heart 

though hair grows gray and body tired

and shoulders thin and frail.

Old optimists--they still hold on to life

And not lament the joys and friends now past. 

They face each day resolved to live it full 

And use each hour as if it were the last.

Night Breeze (1951)

How softly you come stealing in,

0 south wind, from the night without.

Just the whisper of the curtains, thin

And limp rumor that you are about.

Most welcome is your cool embrace,

For as your soft breath gent{y blows

Across my cheek, a perfumed trace

Gives hint you've lately kissed a rose.

With music soft my room you fill,

As your dark fingers swift{y stroke

Dark branches near my window sill,

And touch the moonlit leaves of oak.

( P.S. - On hot summer nights in an upstairs bedroom on an Iowa farm, before air conditioning, a south breeze was a most wonderful thing!)

Lament (1953)

There are two of everyone but me,

My heart wells inward tears, most hurtful kind.

Hands grasp, and finding naught fall empty;

No face is there to fill my memory's eye.

There are two of everyone I meet

And pass unseen with bitter envious glance.

I am not, for their world is complete

In the smile, the hand clasp of each other.

The now yields to tomorrow and passes on

And still I search for one to share time with,

To share with time. Or must it always be

I am alone? Lonely!

February Thaw (1950)

Out of gray skies the snow drifts down to give

Of winter's presence unwelcome proof.

And now it covers all, holding itself

In dazzling whiteness, proud, intact, aloof.

But soon soft winds with kinder thoughts

Inspire the snow to share the earth's drab hue.

Its frosty pride is melted, not in vain.

Spring quickly comes with beauty new.

(P.S. - An early poem, not very good. They did improve a little with time and practice.)

Chicago Backyard (1952)

Ten square feet of soil strewn with tin cans,

Brown broken glass, old inner tubes,

Surround the oak, a paradox that stands

By leave of merciless landlords.

Too close, gray curtains flutter out

From open windows. My tree becomes

An unwilling witness, as they shout

Curses and quote the price of life and

pleasure.

The El blots out this verbiage

And roaring steel on steel sings out

The last hymn left in this modern age.

We cringe to the roots, the tree and I.

We are hid here in a brick forest.

The tree struggles up, but the sky

Must find me, and it comes a guest

Polluted by soot, and men, and garbage cans.

(P.S. - Observations after a visit to Chicago's south side to participate in the wedding of two college my friends.  After graduation, they and their friends lived in the slums of south Chicago.)