First Words
…thoughts of an anachronistic, solo pediatrician
by Glenn Feole, M.D.
"Be careful too that the reading of your story makes the melancholy
laugh and the merry laugh louder," Cervantes, Prologue to Don Quixote
Contact: ishmaelish36@gmail.com
Blog site: ishmaelish36.blogspot.com
June 27, 2014 Friday
Chief Complaint: (written on the chart before I go in the room)
“child is pre-contemplative” (from a consult report on one of my patients who had a sleep study)
Interesting Name:
Ovid
Anecdote:
Christopher was very interested in medicine despite his young age. He was always very inquisitive and peppered me with questions throughout his exam.
Once, as he came out of the bathroom, having left a urine specimen, he asked me, "Dr. Feole, did you shipdick my urine yet?"
Westport, Connecticut, 1980's-1998
Poetry:
Going to Bed
I check the locks on the front door
and the side door,
make sure the windows are closed
and the heat dialed down.
I switch off the computer,
turn off the living room lights.
I let in the cats.
Reverently, I unplug the Christmas tree,
leaving Christ and the little animals
in the dark.
The last thing I do
is step out to the back yard
for a quick look at the Milky Way.
The stars are halogen-blue.
The constellations, whose names
I have long since forgotten,
look down anonymously,
and the whole galaxy
is cartwheeling in silence through the night.
Everything seems to be ok.
and the side door,
make sure the windows are closed
and the heat dialed down.
I switch off the computer,
turn off the living room lights.
I let in the cats.
Reverently, I unplug the Christmas tree,
leaving Christ and the little animals
in the dark.
The last thing I do
is step out to the back yard
for a quick look at the Milky Way.
The stars are halogen-blue.
The constellations, whose names
I have long since forgotten,
look down anonymously,
and the whole galaxy
is cartwheeling in silence through the night.
Everything seems to be ok.
by George Bilgere
Coup d'essai:
This makes me think with admiration and sadness about Pete Seeger with his gentle songs of peace ("Where have all the flowers gone") who, with his wife, bought some property in New York State and build a cabin with his own hands, chopping wood for the fireplace. With all his fame and wealth and notoriety, he did this and lived out his life there with his wife. Some one was quoted in his obituary that "he was the most accessible famous person I have ever known."
PART IV of XX: Journal from Migrant Health Clinic
During one of my lost journeys across the barren countryside, I came across this large, plain store with huge red letters painted on the white building, proclaiming, “Wilson’s Store.” Simple. As I pulled in, my gas tank below zero, I saw Mr. Wilson walk out. (He was one of the board members that approved my position at the Migrant Health Clinic, as mentioned yesterday). He was…well...dusty. He had the same jeans on, with an all-business look, probably about some cow issue.
The gas pump was from the 1950’s. It didn’t take long for me to stop searching for the slot to put my credit card in. The gauges that showed the amount of gas pumped were on rusty metal wheels and seemed to wheeze as they slowly, reluctantly moved. No electrons dancing on an easily read LED here. Everything was coated in dust. The rust was coated with dust. I was standing in dust. The car was coated in dust.
I decided to saunter into the store. It was a huge dimly lit barn-like metal structure with a sloping concrete floor that stretched out to cover this single room. There seemed to be a couple of large barn door entrances connected to it in the distance, perhaps for tractor repair. (A sign outside mentioned tractor repair.) Apparently, you could come here and get gas, buy your chewing tobacco and a loaf of bread, while waiting for them to rotate the tires on your combine.
The only lighting was what reluctantly drifted in from the dusty windows. The same dust motif was in here. I could see the profile of an elderly gentleman who was in a wheelchair. He faced his friend, who was the cashier behind a long counter that seemed to be about five feet tall, and dusty. They both were in their seventies. He was motionless. The old farmer behind the register greeted me very kindly with a smile and a thick Southern accent. I handed him my credit card and he laughed. “We don’t take those things around here.” I looked puzzled. He then said, “We’re just a bunch of farmers around here. We keep it simple.” Some time went buy as I let this sink in, my hand still outstretched. “The owner doesn’t like them. They complicate things.” That made sense. Amen.
Favorite Musician/song:
Favorite song, "Girl from the North Country"
What can I say? I broke my teeth on his early songs. St. Louis, Missouri, 1964, seventh grade.
Girl from the North Country is painfully beautiful…looking back on a first love, long gone…hauntingly evocative harmonica and vocals… the intricate rhythm of the finger picking…the suggestive 9th cord. It brings back memories of "the sixties": the sincerity, the questioning of hypocrisy, striving for peace, social commentary of his songs, non-materialism. His songs touched me and motivated me to make music and philosophical striving a central part of my life. And this song: I have been playing it for over 50 years and it's magic has not ceased.
Favorite Book/author:
Jhumpa Lahiri
Short stories: "Unaccustomed Earth" "The Third and Final Continent"
I have fallen in love with her fiction. Gentle, perceptive insights of such compassion into the human condition of love. Uncovering our common fears and doubts, but always with the touch of compassion and redemption. I reread these stories every few months.
Favorite Movie/DVD:
A movie about a boy's return to nature, leaving his Mother in Italy, meeting his Father, a fisherman, in Central America, getting off the plane as his Father gradually peels off most of his son's clothes until he walks around bare chested, in bare feet, living simply and fishing all summer. A elegiac, lyrical tale of nature and the Father-son bond… with very few words. An all-time favorite.
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