but that would ignore the fact that my mother had a lot to do with it as well, bearing me in her womb as she did for 9 months or so (not intending to omit my father’s contribution, as it were.)
Doctor Small was our family healthcare system in the days long before Penn Medicine, Capital Healthcare, Robert Wood Johnson and many other such extensive medical practices of the present age.
His office was in a house on Branch Street in Medford. When you went there, you entered a room that historically may have formally been a sun room for a family before him. But it was lined with very nice wooden colonial arm chairs along the walls. The last to enter sat in the last empty chair in the row, and as each person or persons were invited into the inner office (announced by him personally), you moved around until you were “next.” By the way, that was the way barbershops also maintained crowd control in those days.
There were some exceptions, and for some reason I was one of them. My father would usually go with me, and Doctor Small would come out into the waiting room and see us and no matter where we were in the chair lineup, he would say to us, “Johnny, Morris! Come in! To this day, I don’t know why because there was nothing about my family that would be of any social importance to him at all. By the way, he’s the only one in my life who called me Johnny.
Nonetheless we were given special attention, even though my family lived on South Main Street where, with a few exceptions, the common folks lived. North Main Street was where, with a few exceptions, the more “elite” folks lived. So I guess there was something about us personally that appealed to Dr. Small.
Dr. Small was also the doctor who was given the responsibility of visiting my elementary school for checkups such as hearing tests, etc. On those occasions, he showed no favoritism or partiality, which was just fine.
He was a great story teller, especially with regards to Maine, where he had a summer home. He would weave stories about his neighbors up there and how backwoods some of them were. But he found them both amusing and interesting at the same time. And, I have to say, he made them come alive when he described the way they looked and some of the peculiar habits they had. I sat spellbound listening to him tell his tales.
I don’t remember at what age or why I stopped going to him, but I was still seeing him when I was in my first year of college at least. And I’ve never known what happened to him—when he died or anything about his burial or anything else. He was one of the last of the small town doctors who still made house calls and charged only two dollars for each visit. No charge for cough syrup or any other meds.
The reason I’ve written about him is because he was a truly unforgettable person in my life who made me feel important. As you’re growing up you are influenced by so many adults who can either help you or hinder you in feeling good about yourself. He made me feel that I was somebody important.
One of the last things he told me when he learned that I was thinking of going into the ministry was “Johnny, don’t get carried away with your self importance, If you can’t save someone in ten minutes, just stop preaching and sit down.”
By the time I finally made it through college and seminary, I had long since lost track of him, but I have to admit that I didn’t follow his advice. On the other hand, I’m not sure I did any more soul-saving in 20-25 minutes than10, if in fact I ever saved anybody, so to speak. But THANKS, DOC, wherever you are!
No comments:
Post a Comment