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
July 20, 2014 Sunday
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| Impressions of the Met, page 2 of 10 |
“staff infection”
Interesting Name:
India
Anecdote:
These anecdotes span that last thirty-two years (or more, going back to medical school in 1978). However, I am pleased to say that the font for these heart-warming experiences for me never goes dry as I seem to add another almost every day. This one occurred Friday, two days ago.
As soon as I walked in the room, he immediately exclaimed,
“I have night vision.”
I paused with a smile…I was interested and a little puzzled. I asked, “Do you mean you have special goggles to see at night?”
“No. I can see through things at night.”
Hmmm. I contemplated this for awhile, the Mother sitting silently and just watching, her eyes shifting curiously from Brody to me and back again.
“Wow, so you have special powers.”
“Yes I do.”
“Do you have any other special powers?”
“No, that’s the only one I have.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Four hundred years.”
South Carolina, July, 2014
Poetry:
Nostalgia
It was darker then, in the nights when the cars
Came sliding around the traffic circle, when the headlights
Speckled with rain traveled the bedroom walls
and vanished; when the typewriter, the squeaking chair,
the slow voice of the radio stirred the night air like a fan.
Of course, the ones we loved were beautiful—
slim, dark-haired, intent on their books.
The rain came swishing against the lamp-lit windows.
The cat purred in his chair. A clock sang,
and we lay nearly asleep, almost dreaming,
almost alone, nearly gone—the days fly so;
and the nights, like sleep, disappear without memory.
Came sliding around the traffic circle, when the headlights
Speckled with rain traveled the bedroom walls
and vanished; when the typewriter, the squeaking chair,
the slow voice of the radio stirred the night air like a fan.
Of course, the ones we loved were beautiful—
slim, dark-haired, intent on their books.
The rain came swishing against the lamp-lit windows.
The cat purred in his chair. A clock sang,
and we lay nearly asleep, almost dreaming,
almost alone, nearly gone—the days fly so;
and the nights, like sleep, disappear without memory.
by Dawn Potter, from Boy Land & Other Poems
Coup d'essai:
"There are nowadays professors of philosophy, but not philosophers. …To be a philosopher is not merely to have subtle thoughts but so to love wisdom as to live according to its dictates, a life of simplicity, independence, magnanimity, and trust." Thoreau, Walden, page 9, "On Economy."
Favorite Musician/song:
Counting Crows, "Around Here"
The raw power of live playing - bass, drums, guitar, haunting lyrics and voice.
Favorite Book/author:
Kevin Powers, The Yellow Birds
This book is by my son-in-law, the husband of my daughter Kelly. Kevin studied poetry at The James Michener School of Writing in Austin, Texas and worked on this book there. I am so proud of him…it became an international best seller, winner of the Guardian prize for best first novel, was a Finalist for the National Book Award…and on and on. It is a very sensitive, poetically written, powerful book, soon to be a movie.
Favorite Movie/DVD:
Paris, Je t'aime
The romance of Paris.
The romance of Paris.
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