Roses for Mother’s Day

        We used to have an old southern tradition I don’t see as much anymore.  On Mother’s Day, everyone wore a rose to church.  You wore red if your mom was living, and white if she was deceased.  Even as dumb little country boys, we understood enough to feel sad for the folks who wore the white roses.

        I had two brothers, and we got our roses the same place every year.  We had a rose bush in the back yard.  We thought it was a magic rose bush, ’cause as far as we knew no one ever watered it or tended to it.  At times we’d look at the roses as we played, but thought little of it till mother’s day.  Then we’d go out back, and sure enough there were roses a plenty.

        For me, those roses sorta represent the magic of motherhood.  Like grits for breakfast, you didn’t order ‘em, they just show up.  I don’t know how they got there, but somehow they did.  It had to be magic.

        Me and tens of thousands of other Southern boys called their mama  today.  I call her at precisely 8:15, and she knows it is me before she picks up the phone.  I think moms know everything.

        I’m glad my rose was red today.  I wish I’d never have to wear a white one, but of course that day will come.  Until then, though, I’ll call every Mother’s Day at 8:15 sharp, and check on her on the other days too.  Moms are world class nurturers.  Even though moms are magic, we need to tend to them too, just like someone musta looked after those roses years ago.  There are few opportunities for magic in the mean adult world, and magic should never be taken for granted. 

Dr. B

Indie and Blinky

       If there were ever two peas in a Harnett County pod, it was Henry Indian Jenkins and Blinky Wallendorf.  Henry sawed a fine old time fiddle and Blink was the best drop thumb banjo man in the County.  They were more old-time than bluegrass guys, but I’d sit in with them at times, and they were excellent musicians.  Even after a night of corn liquor by the campfire, they never missed a beat- perfect timing. 

        One thing I didn’t understand, though.  Both of ‘em had prostate trouble and couldn’t sit all the way through church service without a break to go pee, yet they could jam old time music for hours on end and never budge.  One time I asked Indie how that could be.  He gave me a blank stare and said “I dunno.”  Indie used to say not to preach at him, ’cause a sane man couldn’t stand more than an hour a week, and Indie warn’t up to that much.  I knew better than to ask about it in front of Ms. Jenkins- it wouldn’t be proper as Indie would say.

        Blinky has been gone a decade now.  Indie says he got over it, but when it comes up, he’ll ask me to check the skelton skull in the corner to be sure he has been supplied with his Jim Beam.  After that, he likes for me to wheel him out into the courtyard.  Most of all, he loves his garden.  They let him have a small patch of ground there and he put out a flower garden.  He said all them residents hadn’t been as lucky as him, and he wants them to enjoy the flowers at the end. 

        Back when Indie lived at home, he had a garden.  He was extra proud of his roses.  When you went to see Indie, you didn’t go in the house first, but walked around to the garden so he could show off his latest prizes.  Indie was not a golfer, but he forever quoted the great Walter Hagen.  “Son,” he’d say.  “Always take time to stop and smell the roses.”  Boy did Indie do that.  He worked hard, and he cared.  Yeah, he made some mistakes, and he was never a political animal, but cut a wide swath of rose smelling, and that’s a fact.

        Indie loves this time of year.  When the attendants cut the grass, he wants to sit outside.  The smell of that fresh cut grass reminds of when he was able to mow his lawn in the summer.  He was real particular about his yard, and I don’t tell him the folks who bought his house don’t keep it up the yard like he did.  I sure ain’t gonna tell him they let the rose garden go to weeds.  

        Indie took it all in as he went along, and I don’t think he has many regrets.  Still, when the subject of Blinky come up, his mood darkens.  Everyone says you never hear Indie talk of it, but when I visit him at the nursing home, he still confides in me about it pretty regular.  I guess it’s ’cause I’m his Doctor.  If your Doc is any good, you can tell ‘em your secrets, and Indie is comfortable telling his to me.

        Indie says he wants me to tell the whole story about Blinky, but I still ask to be sure.  I don’t want to breach his privacy, and I have been reluctant, but he always reaffirms his desire to share it.  He also insists on it being after his death though.  As I said before Indie attracted lawyers like a pretty girl would if she walked into Harnett Billiard and Bowl, and he is way too old and tired to put up another fight.  Maybe even more important Ms. Wallendorf lives right down the hall from him at the Home, and somehow Indian made his peace with her.  I don’t think he wants to disrupt that truce- it was too hard to come by.  One thing about Indie, he never wanted to end up on the outs with anyone.

        When I visited him Wednesday, Indie cracked open the skeleton skull cap and poured a drink.  At first he started to talk about Blinky’s death, then reversed field.  “Ah hell, Bibey. Blink wouldn’t want us to moan about it.  We had too many good times for that.”

        “That’s right Indie.  Blink was a good ‘un.”

        “Hey you remember when that rascal got us invited to John Hartford’s Christmas party?

        “Shoot, yeah Indie.  I’ll never forget that one.”

        “Ole Hartford was a player, huh?”

        “Yeah buddy, and I think he liked Blinky’s banjer picking, too.”

        “And man, when Bill Monroe hisself walked in, I thought……”

         Me and Indie went on about that trip till suppertime.  I wheeled him down to the dining room and bid him good night.  I went back by his room to be sure we had closed the skull on the skeleton, and went home to catch up with Ms. Marfar.  After supper, I was gonna have to get out the Hartford shoe box, and refresh my memory.

 Dr. B

A Bad Day at Golf

        Just so y’all know, I’m gonna tell all- both the good and the bad.  And yesterday was a bad day at golf.  Some days I don’t know why I play.  Like medicine, you don’t have much control over it.

        It started on the first hole.  I did the rational thing and hit three-wood to keep the creek outta play.  I hit it good, but it hooked a little and somehow wound up behind a tree on the left side of the fairway.  I don’t know how it did that.  Everyone knows the ball will drift back to the right there even if you hook it, but it didn’t listen.  (Lee Trevino says you can talk to a fade but a hook won’t listen.)  I almost got a par, but the four footer lipped out.  I putted it the way I meant to, and it should break left from above the hole.  This time it didn’t take the break and went straight.

        I went along good a few holes, then three putted an easy hole for a bogey, then flew one down the hill on the right side at number eight and made double.  I know better than to go there- I hadn’t been in that spot in ten years.

       After a par on nine and a burger at the turn, I got my confidence back, but hit one in the trees on the right then three putted again and started out with a double.  Still I fought my my back, made some pars and thought we had a chance when we got to eighteen.  By then I was confident again.  The tees were up, and the wind was at our back.  If you hit a big drive you can blow it right over the tree on the right and cut the dog leg.  It was my routine play as a kid.  I hit it solid, and the ball was still rising when it clipped the top branch and fell dead.  I think that tree has grown a bunch since I was a kid.

        I tried to cut it around and get on the green, hit another tree, landed behind it and was stymied one last time for the day.  Another double bogey.  84- yuck.  There was no mad money for Marfar in the County yesterday.

     It was a bad day of golf, but then no one died, I didn’t have to tell anyone they had cancer, and I didn’t even get cussed out.  My Marfar sensed my disappointment, but I didn’t say anything.  I’d feel guilty for complaining over trivia.  I told her I was gonna go over to the Nursing Home and visit Indie and she said she’d pull out a couple of steaks to put on the grill for when I got back.

        As Cary Middlecoff said, “I don’t worry over four foot putts.  If I miss, my wife still loves me, and we’re eating steak tonight.”  My Marfar knows me well, and she is a smart woman.  And she is right- it is only a game, not brain surgery.  Besides, I’m gonna play better next week.

        I’ll tell you about my visit with Indie in the next few days.

Dr. B

       

The Check is in the Mail

        After the initial shock of being served with the papers, Indie got his back up on the Sissy case.  Indie was smarter than what people knew, and he ran a med-line search and built a good case that the six month delay was immaterial to Sissy’s outcome. 

        I thought he had the science right, but there were other factors to consider.  For one, Sissy suffered mild mental retardation from birth.  At deposition, the Taylor team established the point she was unable to care for herself, and that as captain of the ship, Indie had an extra responsibility to protect her best interest.  The breach of privacy didn’t help his cause any, either.

        Still, when old lady Hamlett got up there and went on and on about how much she cared about Sissy, I thought Indie was gonna jump up and object.  Everyone in town knew she was far more interested in her bridge club than Sissy, but Indie’s attorneys knew better than to beat up some old woman and her little sister with MR and breast cancer.

        I was Indie’s friend.  Even though I thought he had done wrong when he lost the report, I wanted to see him dodge this one.  In spite of that, I felt very sorry for Sissy.  After surgery, though no fault of Indie’s, Sissy had a stroke and wound up in the nursing home.  I’d known her for years, and you couldn’t help but like the kid and have empathy for her plight.  I was on Indie’s team, though a peripheral role.  If I felt that way, I didn’t want to know how a jury might see it.  The thought of her on the stand as she struggled to speak was more than the insurance carrier could stand, and they decided to settle.

        In those days, Physician’s Liability could decide to settle without the consent of the Doctor.  I guess they figured the cost of a defense of Indie was steep, and the odds of a runway jury award were risky.  I don’t think I’d ever seen Indie as mad as as when the carrier sent word of the news.

        One Thursday I was just ready to go out the door to church band practice when Indie called.  “Bibey, you ain’t gonna believe it, but the d@^# check is in the mail.”

        “What you talking Indie?”

        “The check is in the mail.  They settled up with Sissy, and didn’t even tell me.  You know what is bad?  Old lady Hamlett’s gonna get all the money.  Sissy is still stuck in the nursing home, and Medicaid is paying her bills anyway. ”

        “I’m sorry Indie.  I really am.  How much did they hit you for?”

        “I don’t know man.”  I knew he knew, but figured he was embarrassed to tell.  I didn’t press it.  One thing was certain.  The stakes for Indie were now to the next level.  First the heart attack case, and now this.  He about had to avoid another one.  P.L. was a loyal crowd of folks, but after three strikes, you were usually outta luck.

        “Tell you what Indie, let me help you with your filing system.  Maybe you can improve on your odds.  They dig risk management at P.L.  It’ll show good faith.  Can’t hurt, might help.”

         “Yeah, O.K., thanks Bibey.”  I was pretty sure he paid no attention.  “The worst of it all Tommy, is they won’t let me look after Sissy anymore, and I’m the only one who ever would.  Can I turn her over to you?”

          “Sure Indie, you know I’d be honored.  I’ll take care of her.”

         “Well, it’s only temporary, this’ll all blow over someday.”

         ”Indie, man, you can’t go back and be Sissy’s Doc now.  Physician’s Liability won’t allow that brother.”  Poor Indie.  He was too good for his own good.

        “Ah hell, they’ll forget after a while.”

        Somehow I doubted that.  “I don’t know Indie, I think they keep records.”  P.L. was well known for a long memory.  I was certain they’d never forget Indie.  If nothing else, he was unique.

        Bless Indie’s heart, he promised me he wouldn’t go back to doctor Sissy, but I know for a fact he’d sneak over to the nursing home on Sunday afternoons and take her some of her favorite candy.  Some folks said he did it to make to dietitian mad and others thought it was to get under old lady Hamlett’s skin, but I knew better.  He couldn’t help it.  He was just being Indie, and didn’t know how to be anything else.

        I’ll be back over to the nursing home in a few days to ask Indie how much more of his saga he’s gonna let me tell.  I know for sure he wants me to let you know some about his friend Blinky Wallendorf, so I’m tell you about him in my next post.

        I’ll talk to Indie about it, but as far as what happened to Blinky I suspect he’s gonna say he don’t want it all told just yet.  If so, I will respect Indie’s wishes.  At the same time, he has already told me his final wish will be for me to tell the whole story, so after he is gone I’m gonna do just that.

Dr. B

 

 

 

Martin Taylor/East Virginia Blues

        Martin Taylor.  Now, that is a name what strikes fear in a doctor’s heart.  And it is with good reason too.  

        Some of the lawyers are pretty easy to whup.  The ones just in the business for a crap shoot often see a case as winning lottery ticket and swing for the fences only to strike out.  Not so for Martin.  Like an ace golf hustler, when he steps on the first tee he’s done his calculations, knows the odds, and has figured within a narrow margin of error how the thing is gonna come down.  And, he ain’t gonna take a case just for the fun of it and know he’s gonna lose before he gets started. 

        Mr. Taylor is the senior partner in his firm, Taylor, Taylor, Graham and Haley out of Norfolk Virginia.  I often wondered how he wound up in Norfolk, but I found out it was ’cause his daddy was deceased, his mama still lived there, and he wanted to look after her.  I figured a big plaintiff attorney would live in Chicago or New York, but they say he loved the coast and deep sea fishing, and needed to stay close to check on his mom.  Besides, Martin had cases all over the country.  His pilot carted him around in a private Lear jet, so I guess home base was sorta immaterial. 

        I once heard of a Texan who flew all over the world for his company.  One time he stepped off the plane, and realized he’d taken the wrong flight when he landed in the wrong country.  He was undeterred.  It didn’t matter- he had business everywhere.  Martin was a bit like that.  He had cases in Vegas and LA, but also in little towns like ours.  

        Early on in the case, I had Moose send him a memo to warn him the landing strip at Harnett “International” was too short to put that Lear down here.  Taylor send back a note:  Thanks for the warning but NTW, (bluegrass for not to worry) he’d drive on down.  The message was of considerable concern in Indie’s camp- where did Taylor pick up on the bluegrass terminology?  We figured we had a leak somewhere, but where was it? 

        About the time Indie got his certified letter, some strange men showed up at Johnny’s Jewelry and Loan, our local music store and bluegrass habitual Harnett county hangout.  I wasn’t there, but Johnny called me right after they left.

        “Doc, is Indie in some kinda trouble?”

        ”I dunno, how come do you ask?”

        “Some strangers showed up today and said they wanted to know what kinda Doc Indie was.  Said they was wanting to pick some bluegrass music.  I didn’t believe ‘em.”

        “How come?”

         “Well, for one thing they wondered if Indie was a good fiddle man.  Everyone knows the answer to that.  And too, they was driving a Mercedes car.” 

       Hm. Unlikely they were pickers, sure enough.  “Didja catch the plates?”

        “Yep, Virginia.  The tag on the front was Norfolk.” 

        Uh oh.  Martin Taylor scouts sure as the world.  “So, what happened?”

        “We talked a while, and finally I had to ask ‘em.  I said, “Where are you boys from and who do y’all work for?”  They said they’s just bluegrass guys in town for the week.  Cookie was there.”

        Oh Lordy.  “What did Cookie say?”  I was concerned.

        “Well Cookie said he didn’t know who they was or about what wuz their business, but if they wuz here to cause Indie trouble he’s gonna kick their a^^.”

       I groaned.  “GG, Johnny.  Why the heck didn’t you stop him?  You can’t talk to these kinda cats that way.”

       “You know who they was Doc?  We figured they’s Mafia types.”

        “I don’t know, Johnny, but ya’ll be careful what you say.  I know Indie appreciates the support, but in our line of work you can’t go around talking like that.”

        “Well that’s what Indie woulda said.”

         “I know, Johnny.  I know.”  Indie friends were loyal but they were the wrong kind of folks for this sort of battle.

        Back in those days, I was a consultant for the malpractice insurance carrier, Physician’s Liability, so it is natural that me and Mr. Taylor woulda crossed paths on occasion.  We were on opposite sides of the aisle, so direct contact was forbidden, but I have often wondered if our team decoded the intercepted chatter with any degree of accuracy.  

        I know some of it was on the money.  One time we played the eastern Virginia Folk Music Society festival.  I remember it well ’cause we played the slot right before ”The New Dixie Pharaohs.”  We were on stage, and lo and behold I spotted Martin Taylor in the crowd.  He was incognito in a wild Hawaiian shirt and straw hat, but I am sure it was him. 

        We opened with the East Virgina Blues and I dedicated the song to my Mafia friends in the audience.  No one but the Moose knew what the heck I was talking about, and we changed the words to the tune.

        It goes:  “I’ll go back to East Virgina, North Carolina ain’t my home

                       “I’ll go back to East Virgina, leave them North Carolinians alone.

        We changed it to:

                      “You go back to East Virginia, North Carolina ain’t your home.

                      “You go back to East Virgina, leave us North Carolinians alone.”

        Of course we played it so fast no one noticed the difference, but I am sure Martin Taylor did.  He turned to the guy next to him, some dude in a dark suit and sunglasses, and the two of them began to laugh. I’m sure we didn’t scare them one bit. 

        I was gonna go out in the crowd after our set and to check and see for sure it was him, but before we finished our last song, he and the guy in the dark suit split.  I hung around to take in the Pharaoh’s set- they rocked.

        Someday I’m gonna look up Martin Taylor and see what all he thought about it all.  For now we we could only communicate in code.  I needed my insurance, and any mingling with the enemy was off limits.  I’m certain Martin couldn’t afford to be caught hanging out with the likes of me, either.

        One thing is a fact though- Martin Taylor is one more tough character.  Indie was outmatched on this one.

         I don’t want you to worry, so I’m gonna go ahead and let you know Sissy is O.K.  That is the most important thing.  Next time we’ll see how her case played out, and what happened to Indie.

Dr. B

       

 

 

 

Indie’s Filing System

       There were a lot of reasons Indie stayed in trouble.  Of course it didn’t help Jim Beam was such a good friend to him, but most of that was on the weekends.  (Mrs. Jenkins wouldn’t let him drink before church, though, and Indie complied.)

        His filing system led to some of his misery.  Now, Indie never did see much need for all that paper work.  Indeed, sometimes he ’bout had me convinced.  This guy knew all his people on a first name basis, as well as where they lived and most of their phone numbers.  He could make a pretty good run at naming their meds, but he admitted the patient needed to bring in their bottles to jog his memory.

        You ain’t gonna believe this, but Indie wore this tattered tweed jacket with two big ole pockets, and he kept all his patient’s important papers right there on his person till he caught up with ‘em to take care of the problem.

         I’d see Indie in the lounge at the hospital.  “Hey Indie, I saw Mrs. Ingle for you this weekend.  I think she might have pneumonia.  Did you get her x-ray?”

        “Hell, Bibey.  What kinda doctor are you?  It’s just atelectasis.  (In between bronchitis and pneumonia)  Got it right here.”  Then he’d fish around in his pocket (x-rays were in the right, lab on the left) and sure enough produce a report of confirmation.

        I can not overemphasize this is not the system of choice for the American Academy, and with good reason.  Sooner or later, a report about has to get lost.  When one did, it was important.

        Mrs. Hamlett was my English teacher, and a very proper woman.  So, when her little sister chose Indie as a Doc, old lady Hamlett was not the least bit happy.  Sissy had been a patient in the big practice in town.  When she fell on hard times and went on Medicaid, her doctor dropped her, ’cause the corporate folks said they had too many Medicaid folks on the rolls.  Indie was happy to see her.  He took all comers, no questions asked.  It was one of the things I liked about him.

        So, when Indie lost Sissy’s mammogram report at the Harnett Billiard and Bowl, Mrs. Hamlett was some kinda infuriated.

        She had every reason to be.  For one, it delayed the diagnosis six months, (the report later turned up under the sink when the Health Department came through for an inspection) and second of all, it was a major privacy violation.  (I was hip before HIPAA was cool.)

        When Indie told me, I was furious too.  “Dang it, Henry.  You’ve gotta get more modern, and you better quit keeping all those reports in your coat pockets.  I told you this was gonna happen.”

        “Well, hell, Bibey.  I’m sorry, but her nodes were negative.  I called and apologized.  It didn’t change nothing, you know, but I am sorry.”

          “That might be the science of it Indie, but somebody’s gonna come calling over this, and you’re in trouble.”  Dang him, he should be too.

        Other than the Blinky Wallendorf case, it turned out to be the worst trouble Indie saw as a Doc.  It wasn’t but a few months, and he got a certified letter from a law firm in Norfolk.

        He called me the day it came in.  Poor Indie.  He did foul up, but I felt sorry for him still.  I went to his office to see what had arrived.

        “Taylor, Taylor, Graham and Haley, Attorneys at Law.”  It looked official, and very poisonous.

        “Go ahead and open it, Bibey.  I can’t look.”  Indie covered his eyes like a child and awaited the news.

        I read the letter and offered a summary.  “Indie, this ain’t no false alarm.”  We all get letters on a regular basis, but most of it from the bottom feeders testing the water.  This was from Martin Taylor.  “I hate to tell you, Indie, but Martin Taylor is a bad a^^.  He’s gunned down bigger than you, brother.”

        “Thanks for the encouragement.” 

        “Better call your carrier, man.”

        Indie’s malpractice insurance carrier, like most of us in those days, was Physician’s Liability.  They were even less enthused than me.  They remembered Indie well ’cause of a heart attack case he had to settle on two years prior.  I thought he got done wrong on that one.  A patient called Indie’s house one night complaining of heartburn.  Indie says he told ‘em to go to the ER, but of course he didn’t bother to make a note, and the patient said Indie said they could come to the office in the morning.  The man had a heart attack, and never regained his previous level of vigor. 

        A Doc like Indie is a duck in a shooting gallery, and the patient was the uncle of a prominent banker.  I knew Indie was gonna lose, but I was not sure he got a fair shake.  Another Doc might have gotten the benefit of the doubt, but Indie had too much baggage, and his carrier was afraid to go to trial.  They decided to cut their losses.  I can’t say I blame ‘em, but I’m still not sure it was fair.  Indie is a lot of things, but dishonest ain’t one of his faults.  If we coulda dug up a few phone records or one more witness, maybe it’d a worked out, but he didn’t have enough support to take a chance at trial.   (If Indie had jotted down a note it wouldn’t have hurt either.)   

        That case went for a quarter mill, and he only carried a mill total, (it was all he could afford) so Sissy’s case could run the table for him.  I didn’t like his odds, especially against Martin Taylor.

        Mr. Taylor has a saying I have adopted.  “If you don’t know everything about a case, you don’t know anything.” (except we say don’t know nothing)  And, I promise you before Mr. Taylor takes on a case, he does his homework. 

        But then so do the Docs.  You have to to stay in business.  So next time I’m gonna give you the scouting report on Martin Taylor.  I know him well, and have all fear and respect of the man.  To understand Indie’s case, you have to understand Martin Taylor, so he’ll be the subject of our next visit.

Dr. B         

Wisdom of Age

        I’m gonna tell y’all more about Indie real soon, but thought you might like this one.  I ran across it in some of my reading.

        An elderly patient was asked what was the best thing about being 103 years old.

        Her answer?  “No peer pressure.”

        I like old people, they are so cool.

Dr. B

Dr. Henry “Indian” Jenkins

        I’ve got a patient over in the County Nursing home named Dr. Henry Jenkins.  It used to be called the County Home.  (Lester Flatt sang it as “The Poor House.”) 

        His is a true story.  Before you go and think this is a HIPAA violation, I want you to know I have his full permission.  In fact, he is gonna help me write it.

        Henry (we call him Indian or Indie for short) was a doc here in town for a long time, and he had a big following.  It wasn’t the society people who went to him though; folks with even a smidge of status chose one of two established groups in town.  Indie was one of those Docs who never cared a thing about money or any social status.  He believed the poor would always be with us, and it was his job to look after them.  

        Now before you get the notion the Indian was some kinda Mother Teresa, well he warn’t, and not by a long shot.  You see, Henry was one who liked to take a nip every so often, and he had chronic back troubles.  Rumor was he took the occasional Vicodin, but I was his Doc and never prescribed it for him.  If he did I don’t know where he got it.

        But while Indie had his flaws, he was a likable sort.  He sawed an extra good old time fiddle, and we fell in together ’cause of it.  It worried my mama something awful, but I thought Henry was a better Doc than what his reputation indicated.  He did care about his people and had a soft spot for the downtrodden I found admirable.

        I reckon a lot of Docs have a bit of nurturer role in ‘em, and I’ve wanted to help Indie stay on the straight and narrow from the time I finished med school and came back home.  It wasn’t an easy job.  Indie stayed in trouble a lot, and had not a sole ally in proper society except for me.  (I guess a lot of folks considered me to be on the fringes of it given I remained friends with the likes of Indie.)

        As I said, he had substance abuse issues.  He was just flat out an alcoholic, but he wasn’t a drunk.  He never went to work intoxicated, and over the years I got him whittled him down to no more than one on the job.  It was the best I could do.  People still complained, but Indie was smarter after a nip than a lot of Docs in a sober state.  The way I saw it, he was doing more good than harm.  Few agreed.

        And Indie wasn’t much to get into women troubles.  Well, there was the one French foreign exchange student, and boy was she a looker, but….. well, that is another story.  Ms. Jenkins issued the ultimatum on that one, and I sided with her.  Henry was sore about it for a while, but he got over it.  Other than his pal Blinky Wallendorf we were his best friends in town, and the only ones with any hope to pull him out of a jam.         

       When a Doc like Henry gets in trouble, it is lawyer trouble.  And like everything else, Henry did it in a big way.  When his friend Blinky Wallendorf died, Indie attracted more attention from men than Pamela Anderson would if she walked into Harnett Billiard and Bowl and ordered a cheeseburger.  And all of ‘em were lawyers.  Bunches of ‘em.

        These days Indie is old and worn out.  I’m still his Doc.  Every Monday after Hospital Staff meeting, I’ll visit him at the Nursing Home.  He loves to reminisce of the old days.  The only thing he has left from his office is the old plasticized skelton that resided in the corner of his study for as long as I can remember.  Everyone thinks he keeps it there to remind him of his doctor days.

        I know better.  Indie used a bone scalpel to fashion a lid out of the cranium.  When you lift it up, inside the skull two small paper cups and a couple boot leg sized bottles of his favorite Jim Beam rest where the brain once resided.  I don’t know who supplies him, but his liver is already shot, so I guess it doesn’t make much difference now.

        One time he dropped one of the bottles.  It crashed on the cold tile floor and shattered.  The echos drifted down the hallway like a gunshot.  I managed to sweep it all up before the staff got there to check on the commotion.

       Indie offers the same toast ever time.  (Bluegrass folks are people of ritual)  “Bibey,” he’ll say.  “I don’t know how you done it.”

        “Me?  It warn’t me, Indie.  It was your cousin, that Navajo.”

        ”He ain’t my cousin, brother.  No one knows the Navajo.”  Then he’d turn up his shot, and we’d laugh like h**!.  I’d place the paper cups back in the skeleton’s skull till the next Monday.   I don’t think anyone ever knew, and I doubt they figured out the Mandolin Case either. 

        Indie is getting weaker, and his memory has started to fade.  Mine is real good, and I have it all written down anyway, but I promised Indie I would not share the whole story until he is gone.  I am sad to say that time is near.  I wish he could go on forever, but none of us do, and he made me promise to show what happened before I’m gone, so I’m gonna do that.

        Besides, if I didn’t Indie’d cuss me in heaven for all time and I can’t have that.  We were too good a friends.

Dr. B   

MerleFest- Mandolin Disney World (and more)

        For an old mandolin player MerleFest is better than Disney World.  So many choices, just not enough time.  There is more to it than just mandolins, or just bluegrass.  At MerleFest you can take in a Marty Stuart country show, (he is a heck of a mando man too) or Roy Bookbinder blues.  Anywhere a banjo player jams with a rock ‘n roll xylophone artist and a jazz clarinetist is eclectic if nothing else.

        I like the workshops.  Claire Lynch led the vocal one.  I could never sing like Ms. Lynch, but I enjoyed the harmony part pointers.  She said, “If you can sing your part, you can find work.”  I took comfort in that.  A bluegrass band is much like a good baseball team, where everyone brings their strength to the table- the trick is the blend.  I knew from the start I was no star, and I had to work to even be a serviceable part singer.  With  Ms. Lynch’s comments, it occurred to me I had found my part in the music world a long time ago, and I was thankful to have it.

        The mandolin workshop was led by Tony Williamson, a mainstay of the mandolin community for many years.  Also on stage was new face for me in the mandolin word, a Miss Rebecca Lovell.  This kid could play!  Anyone who says bluegrass ain’t gonna attract any young people best take another look.  The lovely young lady was the first woman to win the Merle Fest mandolin competition.  She is one of those folks God put on Earth whose talent will make our journey more bearable.      

        Tony Williamson is an old hand, but still a world class player.  I was intrigued with his back up work- intricate passing chords in the Texas tradition.  Someone asked where to go to learn the material, and we were surprised to learn no one had a definite reference for it other than in Mr. Williamson’s brain.  The suggestion was made to do a DVD on the technique.  I have struggled for years to get a small part if it, so an instructional piece on the subject is one I’d love to see someday. 

        MandoMania was Saturday’s highlight.  Tony Williamson again played and moderated, and the best players in the world were gathered on one stage.  (I direct you Ted Lehmann’s blog for pictures, he always posts the best collection.)  Sam Bush, Mike Compton, Tim O’Brien, all my perennial old favorites, along with the new Miss Lovell, and another teen-aged sensation Sierra Hull, just tore it down.  My favorite new man on the national scene was Darin Aldridge.  This guy played with as fine a tone as anyone I’ve heard.  He is a top ten in the world mandolinist.

        It struck me how there is room for all sort of folks in the mandolin world.  Bluegrass superstar Sam Bush was there with Tony Williamson, flanked by two talented teen-aged girls, one from Tennessee and one from Georgia. 

        The bluegrass is a small world after all.  Here was a young woman, Miss Lovell, who studied classical violin and piano as a child, and Darin Aldridge, who grew up in the small town of Cherryville, N.C.  His training was on the road- he went to work right out of high school and toured with Acoustic Syndicate and then Charlie Waller and the Country Gentlemen.  Their backgrounds could not be more diverse, yet both jammed along at the highest level of artistry.  

        Later, I got caught out in an afternoon thunderstorm, and ducked into a building for cover.  ( I have always been a rational sort- I did not want to be remembered as the country doc who got struck by lightening in a port-a-john.)  Mr. Aldridge was there with his band the Circuit Riders, and I stopped to take it in.  These guys just cooked straight up bluegrass for a full hour.  Perfect harmony- dead on picking.  I pondered how many years of practice went into the refinement of that talent.  It didn’t happen overnight.  Representatives of the Red Carpet were so taken by their show they turned down their beds and put chocolates on their pillows to acknowledge best performance by a new band at the Festival.

        We try to catch Doc Watson every time we can, and took in both his Saturday night and Sunday morning show.  I have every album Doc ever did, but but my favorite is his gospel work.  His version of “What A Friend We Have in Jesus” moves me every time.  Honest simple elegance- pure Doc.  Doc once said he would rather be remembered for being a good human being than for his guitar picking.  It says much about him- he is one of the best in the world, yet remains genuine and humble. 

        After Doc’s Sunday gospel set, we caught one more from my favorite new MerleFest artist, Darin Aldridge.  This time he did some tunes with his fiance, Brooke Justice, and she is a gem.  They said they have a gospel CD due out in a month.  They have a MySpace page. I’m gonna check it out and see if I can review it.  I sense, as the song said, they have “only just begun.” 

        When I left out for MerleFest a few days ago, I was one more tired little doctor/writer.  My agent recognized it, and suggested I take a break and recharge.  His advice proved wise.  I had a weekend to reflect on where to go next. 

        Right before I left, he told me a big editor from New York might read my book rough draft when I finished it.  I was shocked, and even scared.  I mean, how in the world is an unknown country Doc gonna attract the attention of a big city editor?  They get thousands of manuscripts every month and I’m sure Tommy Bibey ain’t on their mind one bit.

       I almost panicked.  I couldn’t write that good.  I had to get better, and real fast- like tomorrow.  What was I going to do?  So far, my agent has been smart.  I followed his advice, and turned to the music for inspiration.  Over the weekend it came to me.

        It’s like Ms. Lynch said.  “If you can sing your part you can find work.”  All I can write about is the life of a country Doc.  I can only try to be like Doc Watson- true to to myself.  If no one publishes a word I write, then it wasn’t meant to be, but all I can be is what I am.  I gotta be like that Darin Aldridge, who is from a little town but not scared to have big dreams.  So, I’m gonna just have to write about what I know and hope for the best.

        Now my blog is six months old, and has ten thousand hits.  You guys have now persevered through the world’s longest “About the Author.”  Now I am comfortable enough with you to let you inside my world as a Doctor.

        So, with my next post, I will introduce you to a friend of mine, Dr. Henry “Indian” Jenkins and start to show you around.

        See you in a few days. 

Dr. B

My Mandolin Case

        Now I know you must wonder what a doctor could possibly find important enough about a musical instrument case to warrant tying up some .00000000000000000000000000000000000001 percent of the Internet.  I have several very important reasons.

        If you are observant, you can learn an awful lot about someone if you study their case.  It will tell much about their philosophy.

        Next time you are at a bluegrass festival, check out an instrument case.  I have three, but my favorite is an old Calton fiberglass one.  It does have a cover, which has reduced its exposure, but in spite of the protection, it has been battered, bruised and scuffed up something awful over the years.  Maybe it ain’t a pretty face in the crowd, but it is very strong, and has been quite loyal.  One only has to crack the lid, and the smell of wood glue, barbecue and a tinge of Old Spice wafts out.  The smell floods my brain, and renders me a Pavlovian Dog ready for the show date.  My mandolin rests inside.  Protected by the case, it has only minimal blemishes to show from twenty-five years on stage.

        Almost everyone in bluegrass will place stickers from an assorted variety of venues on their case.  The pros traverse the country, and their cases reflect their wide travels.  A doctor’s life keeps you close to home, and mine is more of a statement of local culture.  You know- bumper stickers that advertise “Live at the Nursing Home” or “4th Annual Liver Mush Festival.”

        There are a couple that mean a lot to me.  One is from the AAFP (American Academy of Family Physicians) that states “Your Family Doctor Cares For You.”  I like that one.  I need to call the Academy and see if they still print it.  Mine has been on my case for twenty-five years, and though it is tattered and worn, it still reflects my philosophy.  Should it wear out, it would have to be replaced.

        That one is my favorite, and the foundation, but others have been layered in a haphazard patchwork fashion over the years, and can partially obscure it if you don’t look real careful.  There is one for Weber, my favorite mandolin builder.  Another recognizes my membership in the IBMA (International Bluegrass Music Association.)  I stuck my jury duty summons on to remind not to go back until I have to, but go when I am called, and there is one from a show Alison Kraus did in Raleigh when we got invited backstage to visit.  I tell you, the woman is even prettier in person than she appears from the stage, and a very sweet spirit.  Remind me to tell you what she did for a young patient of mine that night.  

        Of course, some of it is whimsical.  It wouldn’t be bluegrass any other way.  I got a nice one from the lab at the hospital.  It sports a skull and crossbones and says, “BioHazard.”  It is fun to watch the adults notice the warning and shoo their children away.  I often wonder.  Do they think I carry a transplant kidney in the thing?  Another one we got from the Nuclear plant.  “CAUTION! RADIOACTIVE MATERIALS.”  That one works even better.  

        There is one that says “I love my Eagle Scout” and another touts “First Place- Weekly Reader Contest.”  I have stickers from a number of touring bands I have gotten to know over the years, and ones to advertise local fund raisers like Relay for Life and the American Heart Association.  (We did the annual chicken picking for them for many years.) 

        My favorite radio stations get some play.  One, ENCW 77.8, played Neuse River for years when  our CD came out.  I never forgot them.  My kids thought it was very cool to have old Dad on the radio. If you can be cool to a middle schooler, you’ve struck a lick, and I couldn’t have done it without bluegrass and ENCW77.8.  Right about the time the Internet got started our little CD was on this stream radio deal, and we were heard around the world.  One month we were number twenty-seven on the Finland Bluegrass Survey.  It was an Andy Warhol moment, I tell you.

        Outside of the AAFP one, perhaps my favorite came from a patient.  He suffered an unfortunte neurological event that took away his ability to speak.  We were devastated- he is a good friend and was a fine singer.  His wife grieved so, and I worried over it too.  He didn’t want me to fret, and would write to reassure ME that he was O.K!  The patient is a bluegrass guy, and one day he showed up with a new bumper sticker for my mandolin case.

       NTW (not to worry) he wrote, as he handed me the latest addition for my case.  The sticker said “What if the Hokey Pokey is What it’s all About?”  He smiled at the thought.

        How can I worry much about trivia when I have brave patients like that? 

        There is much, much, more I am going to tell you about cases, but I am out of time today.  One of my patients, a farmer, said ”Dr. Bibey knows something.  He just ain’t telling everything yet.”

        I find old farmers to be perceptive beyond what folks sometimes recognize.  Remind me come the first of the year to fill you in on more details.  I won’t let you down.

Dr. B

 

P.S. Gotta get some work done on my computer or get a new one- I think I’m about to wear this one out.  Will be back on line soon.    Dr. B