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 27, 2014 Sunday
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| Impressions of the Met, p. 9 of 10 |
Chief Complaint: (written on the chart before I go in the room)
“overfed” (computer diagnosis)
Interesting Name:
Loyalty
Anecdote:
A very outgoing three year old kept reaching for my otoscope as I knelt down to look into his ears. He just seemed to have that strong curiosity and a drive to do things for himself. Probably a future chairman of a Pediatrics program.
I gave him the otoscope and he peered very carefully into my ears. I thought he was finished, but he then asked me to open my mouth. He examined my throat very carefully, looking at every nook and cranny, his eyebrows knit together in a frown. He then silently proceeded to my nostrils, moved up to my eyes as he carefully shined the light into my eyes. I think he was making note of how the pupils changed size due to the light. It was a very thorough, serious exam. I was impressed.
I thought he was finished and I smiled and reached for the light when he said “Wait,” put his hands on the sides of my head and made me bend my head forward. He then took the light and, very meticulously, examined my bald spot.
I asked him if it was alright. He paused, and then looked me in the eye and said with gravity, “It’s alright.”
I was relieved.
South Carolina, July, 2007
Poetry:
Cowboy Boots
for my Father-in-law
and best friend
George Dewey Clark, Jr.
We took him feet first out the front. He should have had
his cowboy boots on. The New Jersey sky he loved
was darkening, the black hearse crouched on the well worn driveway.
The undertakers laughed as they closed the doors. So I looked back
by the garage where he had listened to the big bands on Saturday nights
the steak sizzled on the half-cut industrial drum
the wine and whiskey flowed, the cigar smoke drifted
Year after year glided by as we talked and changed.
It was there I learned how to laugh, in the evenings by the glowing logs.
My wife smiled as Mr. Clark whisked me away
for late night Creme de Banana by the blazing fire
in the golden oaked, rough beamed kitchen
Willie Nelson and a dance with the girls in the living room
at 2 a.m. And singing and banging pots at the New Year
and stories and more stories about the past, about cowboys,
about New Jersey and tobacco and the ports of World War Two.
The last story was about dying and how to do it. I watched.
A shower, more pillows, an accident in the bathroom. No matter.
Like St. Francis' kiss, like Theresa crying in Calcutta,
his groaning body was transformed before my eyes.
It was Guantanomo bay, 1944, again.
A Cuban cigar, lots of wine, singing
and, of course, stories of beautiful women.
Thank you's for my help, a look,
a bond between buddies going through their last battle together.
So I read to him my stories this time. The circle
was closing on twenty-one years of tales. I told him
how much I'd learned by watching and absorbing his life
an Apache warrior at the feet of the wrinkled man
by the dying fire on the wide Wyoming plain.
And by the garage was Cal with an empty bottle
of beer, a rocket waiting, a match cracked alive.
The hearse rolled down the sloping driveway slowly,
the flag he saluted by the well house, lifted out of the way,
was at half mast, as the rocket sped to the waiting sky
in a widening gyre, a deafening roar, and exploded
as we watched him slowly leave his beloved farmhouse
the dying sparklers hanging limply from our hands.
Glenn Feole
December 5, 1996
Westport, Ct.
Coup d'essai:
"…unless he had windmills on the brain," Sancho Panza, Don Quixote, Cervantes, Chapter VIII, p. 69.
"…and even worse, turn poet, for that disease is incurable and catching, so they say," Don Quixote, Chapter VI, p. 63.
Thank goodness that people have windmills on the brain. The bold leap...the creative, impossible gesture...the nonsensical romantic dream...the courage to pursue a passion.
"…and even worse, turn poet, for that disease is incurable and catching, so they say," Don Quixote, Chapter VI, p. 63.
Thank goodness that people have windmills on the brain. The bold leap...the creative, impossible gesture...the nonsensical romantic dream...the courage to pursue a passion.
Favorite Musician/song:
CSN&Y (Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young) "Our House"
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| from New Moon Cafe, a great vegetarian restaurant in Aiken, Ga. |
Any of you with those memories?
Favorite Book/author:
Michael Connelly, The Black Echo
An Edgar Award winner for best first mystery. Riveting, suspenseful. His first novel and the voice and command of character grabbed me from the start. One of those books that you finish at 4 a.m.
Favorite Movie/DVD:
A Man Named Pearl (documentary, gardening, sculpture)
A gem…pursue your passion and creativity.
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