On October 1, 1943, heavily pregnant Florence Briggs drove herself to the hospital alone.

Her husband, Robert Briggs, had gone hunting for the weekend. Not that he was completely inattentive; they had consulted the doctor as to whether it was a good idea. The doctor, no doubt a hunter himself, had advised them not to worry, the baby wasn't going anywhere for at least a week or two. Go, hunt, enjoy, don't worry!

Florence took her other daughter, two-year-old Bonnie, and went to stay with her mother for the weekend, just in case. Then her water broke, and she realized that the time was near. After first having considerable trouble finding someone to look after Bonnie, she drove herself to the hospital.

After some hassle because she didn't have her insurance card on hand, they booked her a room on the third floor. They instructed her that she could take either the stairs or the elevator.

"If you want me to have this baby right there on your stairs," she said, "I'll be happy to go that way." They directed her to the elevator.

She settled into her bed, and Susan popped out within a few minutes, with nobody around except her mother. The nurse popped her head in a few minutes later, to check up. "Just checking to see if anything has started to happen in here."

"All over the place" was Flo's reply; the nurse saw the baby between her legs and started yelling for the doctor.

The doctor came in and said "So, you're the sort of person who likes to get things done in a hurry, huh?"

"No point in waitin' around" was Flo's reply.

(as told to me, Fritz Capell, by Florence on Susan's 63rd birthday)