All of Me

        I heard this one on my office IPOD the other day.  It isn’t the point of the song, but it occurred to me the title reflected how I think we ought to go at things.  It sure is that way in medicine.  You give it your all, and in the end you’re still gonna lose.  Sometimes I think we start with cadaver to make sure we get the point.

       Art is the same way.  Over the years I’ve played with hundreds of musicians.  Many of them are excellent at their art and will never be recognized by any worldly reward.  For 99.9% of us, all we’ll see at the end of the rainbow is the satisfaction of reaching deep down inside to find our best.

         Writing sure is that way. Tim Stafford is at work on a book about Tony Rice.  He told me a book project was a longer journey than a CD.  After fifteen years with Blue Highway and multiple successful recording projects, he knows.  In many ways writing a book is a microcosm of life.  It is full of hopes, dreams and rejection. In spite of it all, you are still compelled to keep on in the hope you will fine tune your craft to the point others will get inside your head and contemplate your take on things. 

        It has its risks.  You toss your heart out to the world and see what happens.  Sometimes you get stomped on, but you go see the cardiologist, patch it up, and go back and try again.  When it’s all over I want folks to say old Dr. B gave it his best in both medicine and art.

        I know a lot of people find artists to be a little kooky, but I’m gonna give all me the whole way and let the chips fall where they may.  

Dr. B

A Song For Every State

        My ‘Song of the Day’ on Facebook was the Tennessee Waltz.’  We lived in Knoxville a few years and still have a lot of fond memories. 

       One time my wife played a regional teacher’s convention and the band came up with a song for every state represented.  We just did it off the top of our heads.  I dug the ‘Alabama Jubilee.’ We both loved ‘Carolina on my Mind’ even though it wasn’t bluegrass.  I know you are not surprised the ‘Banjo Diva’ had to have ‘Rocky Top’ on the set list.   Alaska wasn’t there but I’d like ‘North to Alaska’ if they had been.

        It occurred to me there are a lot of states I am not as familiar with as I should be.  Before I get travel with my book I’d love to hear from you guys.  What song do you like for your state?  It can be but does not have to be your state song, although I’d love to collect that list too.  If you send them to me I’ll keep ‘em in my tour file.  

        When you go to Rome you gotta do like the Romans.  It hit me I have spent my whole life right here in Harvey County. If it hadn’t been for all the bands touring through I might not have known of the outside world.  I can’t think of a better way to know the heart of a state than to know the music people love there.  No reason to confine it to the U.S. either.  I’d love to hear from folks all over.

        Let’s see now.  Is there a ‘New Hampshire Breakdown?’  Or how ’bout “On Some Foggy Green Mountain Top’ for Vermont?  Y’all (or you guys as the case may be) let me know.

Dr. B

Service People

        Regardless of the politics of any conflict one thing is for sure:  It ain’t the fault of those young folks on the ground who just hope and pray to stay alive and get back home.

        Whenever I see a service or police person as a patient I always close with the same statement, and I mean it.  “I appreciate what you do for me.  I’m too old to protect myself anymore and you put yourself in harm’s way to see it to I am free to be a Doc and try to do a little good.  Anything else I can do for you?” 

        My dad’s big brother died in France in WWII.  Dad rarely speaks of it, but of course has never forgotten.  Like many towns around the country we have a monument on the Courtsquare.  His name along with many others is etched on there for all time. 

        We play a gig every so often on the Square.  Every time I go by there I stop and look his name up on the monument and say a silent prayer.  I didn’t have the privilege to know him, but everyone around here says he was a wonderful young man.  I’ve seen pictures.  He was a good-looking boy with this big smile. They say he was a shutter-bug. I wonder what all he could have done with more than twenty short years.  I guess we’ll know in eternity.

        Hats off to all who serve.

Dr. B

Message in a Blog Bottle

        I sit here at the Deep River Blues Coffee Cafe and I’m in awe.  When I was growing up here we only had the Billiard and Bowl until Hardees came in, and pizza was an exotic international food.  I can’t believe Harvey county has come far enough to have our version of Starbucks. They got all kinda coffee in this place, and I can’t pronounce the names of any of ‘em.  Usually I just get the house black but every so often I’ll order a new fangled one.  “How ’bout one of those high-test hoop-tee-do cold caramel ones with the crushed up ice?”  I asked.

         “Tough day, Doc?”  The kid at the counter is a blonde haired girl, but she acts about like a bartender.  “You mean the frappacino?”

        “Uh yeah. That’s fine. Make it a double shot of that espresso jazz and put some whipped cream on it.”

        ”Yes sir.  Coming right up.”

        I slumped into the corner easy chair and tapped into the Wi-Fi.  When I was a kid Hi-Fi was fancy.  We’ve come a long way.

        I e-mailed a friend in Australia.  I’m about like Jimmy Stewart.  I love the old hometown, but there was also a part of me that wanted to fling responsibility to the wind and see the world.  In a way the Internet has allowed me that without leaving home, but has also whetted my appetite. 

        But as my daughter always said, “Daddy, there’s not a frivolous bone in your body.”  I never would have gone without  a reason for the trip.  That reason is the reader, and we want to meet all these new people I have met in my writer journey.  My book is my travel ticket.

        Not that I want to give up my day job.  I still love it and the interaction with the patients.  But as the book draws nigh, I’m also gonna have to see the world before I get too old to  go.  Then I’ll come back home, check into Harvey Nursing Home without complaint, play bingo every Monday and teach mandolin lessons to anyone who’ll visit, ’cause I got to do it all.

          When I started my blog it was like a message in a bottle.  I tossed it out from our little desert island here, watched it bob away and drift off into the distance, and waited to see if anyone would respond.  One day someone far across the ocean found it on an isolated beach where it had washed ashore.  They popped the cork and fished out the message.  

        “My wife and I love home but we also want to see the world.  We love bluegrass music, writing, and art.  We only want to go where we already know folks of like mind.  To tell you the truth, Harvey County is a small place.  We’re a little scared of strangers.  When I finish my book can we come visit a bookstore near you?”

         The answer was yes, and to a degree I never dreamed of.  I have already learned a bunch from you guys and look forward to plotting my course over the next few years to get everywhere I want to go.

        All that is gonna take a lot of time.  As the publishers look at ‘The Mandolin Case’ some have already inquired about an outline for a sequel.  (Thank goodness I have one)  I work steady as a Doc every day and it is hard to fit it all in.

           I hope you guys will bear with me.  Today I want to tell you of a slight change in my publication schedule.  In some ways it will be more; in some ways it is less.  I plan to post a brief  ‘Thought of the Day.’ (at least most days)  Often it might dove-tail with my ’Song of the Day’ on FaceBook.

         Instead of three long posts a week I’ll do one long one on Mondays.  I’m gonna call the ‘Monday Morning Post.’

        I hope this change will allow me to commit to the support of ‘The Mandolin Case’ I will have to give it, and also the time to write the sequel I have started.

        At the same time, I admit I fear the thought of the loss of even one reader.  I have come to enjoy your regular input.  Like a doc without patients a writer with no readers might as well call it a day.  I have learned much from you and hope you will all continue the journey with me even though my format will have to change a bit to get it all done.

        So I send another message in a bottle from Harvey County and float it out to you again.  I hope you’ll stick with me.  The total time I give to the blog might be cut in half, but I hope the books will make it up to you.  Hey, at this point y’all about gotta read them ’cause some of you made it in the story by virtue of your visits to Harvey County.

        As Tim O’Brien would say I won’t say so long ’cause I ain’t going anywhere. (or something like that)  So I’ll be in touch and see ya soon. 

Dr. B

Doc Watson/David Holt

        Last night we went down the road to Spindale, N.C., the home of WNCW radio, for a festival and concert by Doc Watson and David Holt.  Trust old Dr. B and put this on your calendar for next year; these folks know music.  We sat up our lawn chairs on a gentle grass slope right in front of the stage.  The backdrop was a small lake/large duck pond.  The wind whipped up a few waves and the leaves fluttered around.  All the best regional bands were there.  Very soon I forgot of the troubles I brought with me.

        If you have never seen Doc Watson, the time to go is now.  Like the Appalachian mountains he still calls home, Doc has seen a lot in his time and he continues to express it in his artistry.  He is genuine, no put on whatsoever.  David Holt led him to the stage. Doc was in a flannel shirt and had on some kinda dark dungarees, white socks and worn brown brogans.  As he tuned up my heart pounded with the anticipation of a small child.  I have heard him many times, and yet never grown tired of Doc.  He is as comfortable as a front porch session and yet brilliant.  He began to play.  My wife and did not speak a word until the first break for fear we might miss a note.

        David Holt was the perfect picking partner for Doc.  His respect for him was clear.  He’d coax Doc into telling old stories, some of which I’d never heard.  Doc told us how his dad taught him the harmonica, or French harp as they called it back then.  He told of  a day as a young boy when his grandmother sang ‘Uncloudy Day’ on the porch or listening to Merle Travis in the late 30s and how the ‘Deep River Blues’ came to him.  He talked about courting his wife with ‘Shady Grove’ (said his heart turned a flip the first time he heard her voice) played old fiddle tunes like ‘Rag Time Annie,’ and told of the days when he worked the other end of a cross-cut saw with his Dad.

         There was ’Step it up and Go’ with David on the washboard, bones on Fisher’s Hornpipe, then hambones and harmonica. David laid his banjo in his lap and used the head as a snare with some brushes and they rendered the old Eddy Arnold number ‘Any Time’ with a swing feel that was might near jazzy.  Doc sang the Crystal Gayle “Ready for the Times to get Better’ in Bm all weary and worn but with hints of hope.  There was the African-American “You Must Come in at The Door’ Doc first heard on a scratchy record many years ago. 

        It was David on the slide resonator with Doc doing ‘Sitting on Top of the World’ to Doc alone right after the break with “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.’  Simple, elegant, true.  Doc is Gershwin to spirituals; ragtime to blues.   He is real.  Please don’t miss him.

         For me it was a reverence close to a church service, though Doc would be the first to tell you we are all just imperfect humans.  Maybe so, but Doc is a mighty fine human, one who overcame a disability to become an American institution.  The remarkable thing is he remains simple and humble.  I don’t think he knows how special he is.

        They did one encore, and then the magic was over for the night.  We turned to the young couple next to us and they shared they had never seen Doc before.  I shook the young man’s hand.  “I’m so glad you were here.  I took my kids to see Doc twenty years ago, because I wanted them to experience truth in music.  They go to see him every chance they get.”

        “I will too, sir.” The boy watched as David led Doc off the stage.  “I promise.”

       I’ll go see Doc every chance I get too.  I learn something every time I get to hear him play and sing.

Dr. B

Pick Up Truck Litmus Test

        A couple posts ago, I told you of Mr. Charles Franklin Thombley IV, negotiator extraordinaire.  It is true he uses a pick-truck to help him in his business. Given he is in a very intense business enviroment, you might wonder how this old truck could come into play.

        Indeed the truck is a bland as Thombley is spectacular.  It is a 1979 Ford F150.  It has an in-line six and and tows okay, but has no frills or options of any kind.  There is no carpet, but only rubber flooring.  You can work with it on the farm and then wash off the red clay with a garden hose and then leave the windows down and let it dry out.  Right near the clutch there’s a big hole, and you can watch the highway roll by through the floorboard.  The vehicle never had a bed-liner, and is rusted out in spots,  It burns some oil, but only a quart between changes.  It has an AM radio but it hasn’t worked in years.  

         When Mr. Thombley meets a new client and is not sure of their character he often uses the truck as a litmus test.  He’ll find out if a potential client has any need for a truck.  They often do because he deals with a lot of professionals in transition in between offices. They often say, ”Oh yeah sure, I have a man moving me this weekend.  I’m sure it’d come in handy.”

           Mr. Thombley will say, “Well, I have access to one you can borrow.  It belongs to an old farmer who helps me out on the south pasture.  He just asks that you bring it back in the same shape as when you picked it up.”

        ”Okay. Thanks.”

         The he lets them take it for the weekend. 

          Invariably when the potential clients return it they fall into one of three categories.

          Some of them bring it back filled up with gas and washed.  Every so often one will even wax it.  He has never entered into a business relationship with anyone in this category and regretted the decision.  To a person they proved to be good clients.

          Some bring it back with the exact same amount of gas.  They might not wash it, but they get most of the mud off.  They might make adequate clients, but have to be watched with more care.

         A few bring it back dang near out of gas, mud-stained, and sometimes even dented.  Charles will mention it to them and they might say, “Hell, he’s just an old farmer.  He doesn’t have the time or the money to deal with me.”  Mr. Thombley always tells these people his schedule is jammed and he had to stop taking new clients until he can get caught up.

        “Bibey,” he told me.  You can always tell what a man is made if by how he treats people who are not in a position to defend themselves.  If he is going to be fair to some old farmer he doesn’t even know, then he will be fair to the people he enters into business with.  If he’ll take advantage of them because he thinks he can get away with it he’ll be too much maintenance to deal with on a fair basis.  You can arrange a fair deal with guys like this, but it takes too much time and energy, and they will back out on you at the first opportunity.  It just isn’t worth the trouble when there are so many good people out there to work with.

        I was always good to fill up a man’s truck if I borrowed it.  Often I’d run it through the car wash too. After I met Charles I try to wax ’em if I get a chance.  You only get one chance at a first impression and if die tomorrow I want people to remember I did my best to be fair to them.

       As I am sure you know, there was no farmer.  Mr. Thombley kept the truck just to be sure what folks were made of.  He bought it new in 1979, and said it has been one of his best investments.

Dr. B

Not a Bad Day (Golf with the Hawg)

        I’ll be back with more on the Negotiator next post, but I had to tell you about today first. 

        The Negotiator called first thing in the morning to say he’d struck a fair deal for two parties; his specialty.

        I drew the Hawg in the choose-up; always a good sign.  We played Little League ball together.  Hawg was an athlete, I was a student.  I knew I’d better get good at books as soon as I saw his fast ball.  Thank goodness we were on the same team.  Hawg played AAA ball, I became a doc.  His brother (little hawg) played the PGA tour; Hawg is almost as good at golf as his brother. 

         I was a ‘C’ man today, and shot 79.  I hit one in out of the fairway and made an eagle.  The sun was in our eyes so none of us saw it go in, but it was in the hole when we got to the green.  We barely won the front but Hawg got warmed up and shot four under on the back, and we ran away with it. 

        It’s always good to have good friends.  If the Hawg shows up half drunk, chain smoking, and wobbly, and even if he’s gotta drag around some skinny old country doc who only plays on Wednesdays, still put your money on him; he’s a player.  I took a bunch of mad money home to Marfar and it made her happy.

       I went to the dentist and didn’t have any cavities, reviewed a CD from an artist friend I think a lot of, and came home and read some Mark Twain.       

        Not a bad day.

The Negotiator

        This guy is just too good for you to miss.  I hope to secure his permission to tell more of his story in a second book called ‘Acquisition Syndrome.’  He had a peripheral involvement in ‘The Mandolin Case,’ which is now under review by several publishers.  He asked that I hold off on his full story until it is released.

         His name is Charles Franklin Thombley IV.  His everyday car is a Sunbeam Tiger, which is an Alpine with a 260 except he exercised an option for the Ford 289 V8.  He once won a sportsman’s race at Charlotte Motor Speedway. The Tiger had a car phone just like the one Maxwell Smart had.  The car was similar too, but Mr. Thombley’s is British racing green rather than red.  He thought it provided better camouflage. Somehow Thombley was connected with Max and guys like him, and I suspect he was a major factor in thwarting Chaos.  Mr. Thombley has not changed and remains just shy of middle age, still youthful but also wise.  

        He was an advisor in the Mandolin Case, but always stayed behind the scenes.  His involvement was so clandestine he does not appear in that novel.  If you asked him about it, he and the Chief would enter into the cone of silence.  He is tight-lipped and will only agree to his story in print if I encode it to the degree that I have de-identified him.  We are in high level negotiations at this time, but after he reads ‘The Mandolin Case, I believe he will go along.

        His people are from Atlanta and got their start in the business world at the time of the Civil War.  They bought up real estate futures right after Sherman came through, and never looked back.  Charles went to Oxford on a rugby scholarship, and has a three handicap at an exclusive club in Augusta he preferred not to name.  He owns lake-front property throughout the South and a home in Europe.  He usually wears sunglasses.  If you go out to eat with him in Atlanta, the owner of the restaurant will call him ‘Sir’ and seat you at a private reserved table in the back.  He is old southern but he married a lady from above the Mason Dixon line.  She was a Hamilton, and I think her people came from money.  It wasn’t new money. 

         He wears dark Italian suits and red ties.  He is of medium build and average height, but little else about him is average.  He has a wavy head of hair about like Lyle Lovett except there is just a hint of gray in the temples.  All the women want to meet him, but he is solid loyal to his wife.  He is also loyal to his clients.

          He doesn’t work from a contract, and never sends a bill.  Instead he conducts business on a handshake.  He always says, “I will do my best for you. You have to decide what it means to you and then determine my fee.”  Everyone who works with pays him well because they want him to stay on their team. 

        He is booked as steady as the guitar man I told you about a few posts ago.  Except for a few weeks off in Paris every year he always has a gig.  He remains available to his clients even when he Europe. He also has business there.  He sings in the church choir.  His favorite hobby is the financial revitalization of under-capitalized southern churches.

        In my next post I am going to give up the only work secret he will let me disclose at this time.  As I said we are in negotiations for the rights to the sequel to ‘The Mandolin Case.’  This story will reveal his ways in greater detail.  He will have to proof the manuscript to be sure it is sufficiently encrypted.  This process might take a couple years, but it will be worth it.  You will want to get inside his world because to tap into any small part of his skill as a negotiator will be invaluable information for you. 

        I can tell you this.  He reshaped the medical landscape in Harvey County, and cut a wide swath right down the Interstate all the way through the Tobacco Triangle a few years back.  One year my band played a gig in Raleigh and a doctor came up to me and said, “You and that masked man out of Atlanta changed everything and it was all for the better.”

         I told him it was a nice complement but I couldn’t take the credit.  It all belongs to Mr. Thombley.

        So, here is the one secret he will allow me to disclose at this time.  He often decides which clients he wants to do business with based on a pick-up truck.  Now, I know you must wonder.  How can a pick-up truck help a sophisticated man like Mr. Thombley decide which clients are trustworthy?  I have to go back to the doctor gig, but promise to explain this in my next post.

        Never worry about Dr. B.  You have come to know me well.  I have a good grown-up doctor brain, but I am just a little boy and have the heart of a child.  I do not understand business, and have no chance against the sharks who now circle the medical waters.  Don’t worry though.  He is the only man I know who understands business but also has a heart, and he looks after me.

        I am in good hands, because he is the negotiator, and he took me under his wing.

Dr. B

Healing Songs and Peppermints

        I’ve been a little slow to get as much posted, because I’ve been sick a little while.  Don’t worry; I’m on the mend.  Once a year, I’ll get a bad case of laryngitis.  When it happens I get behind on my work, especially my dictation.  But I always take it as a reminder of how lucky I’ve been.  Most of my patients are far worse off.

        Whenever I get sick, I always look for the same things.  My wife is good with crafts and such, and she has an afghan of hers on the couch I’ll curl up with.  She makes some kinda concoction called a ‘comfort egg.’  Maybe I’m just prejudiced, but I think her chicken soup is the best in the world.  My mama used to give me peppermint candy and a Coca-Cola whenever I got any kind of virus.  My kids knew this and would always bring me both what few times I got sick along the way.  Sometimes when I’m ill and it snows I can recall those old days as a kid at home so vividly that I am compelled to go out in the truck to find some Co-Cola and peppermint candy.  It might sound irrational to you, but it works.  Besides, I’m a man of science, so it must be true. 

        Of course I always look for some healing songs, too.  My Song of the Day on FaceBook was ‘He Ain’t Never.’ The version that came to mind was Darin and Brooke Aldridge’s.  You can’t help but be energized when you hear Brooke sing that one.  If instead I want a big laugh, I’ll pull out a tape of one of the gigs from my old doctor band. I played the banjo back then and they introduced me as ‘The Harvey County Flash.’  Believe me, there has never been much flashy about old doc, and today I am extra sluggish. 

        But I take comfort.  Like old Dad always says, tomorrow will be a better day.  I have my family, my friends, and my music and the Good Lord always sees to it to heal me up by Monday to doctor another day.  For breakfast, Ill have a comfort egg, some hot tea, and a Co-Cola.  I’ll be okay.

        Most  bluegrassers know healing has very little to do with pills, and everything to do with people. What are the healing songs for you guys?  I’d like to know, ’cause next time I’m sick they might be the very tunes that bring me comfort.  Then y’all can say you healed the doc.  

        I’m gonna go have a peppermint and put on some music.

Dr. B

The Real People

       

        I had lots of favorite moments at our open house, but this one might be the best of all.

        As you can imagine we had folks who came from all walks of life. There were a few movers and shakers who came out of curiosity, but for the most part it was rank and file everyday folks.  There was the UPS guy, several country preachers, maintenance men, kitchen workers, the barber, teachers, a couple mechanics, docs and nurses, and a number of golfers.  I’m sure you are not surprised a bunch of bluegrass pickers were there.

        They came for different reasons.  I knew almost all of them. Most came to say, “Thanks, Doc.”  Some came for the music and a few came because there was free food.  That’s okay.  I figured it was a special day and they sure needed it more than I did.  I didn’t eat ’cause I was afraid we might run out.  (We did)

        When they got ready to have the ribbon cutting ceremony, there was a dignitary there to kick it off.  He asked for all the elected officials in the crowd to raise their hands.  He was a bit embarrassed to realize there wasn’t a single one.

        One of my patients said, “Hey Doc, not one politician?”

        “I guess we forgot to invite them.”

        ”I take it you only invited the important people.”

        ”Dang right.  This is my kind of party.”

        I am sad to say modern medicine is often about a lot of things these days besides the patient.  For some it is power, some money, others it is ego or control, and sometimes just pure arrogance.  As my friend said, “When I got into health care, I thought we were gonna talk about germs.  All we talk about is money.” 

        Maybe it was only for a day, but at least for one day and one day only it was about the patient and nothing else. 

        I noticed our competition in town came by.  They were most generous.  I didn’t get to speak to them but they said it was good for Harvey County.  I am sure they got the message.  There have not been many times in my life I’ve seen everyone sit up and take notice af what counts but for once it happened. Other than a few medical out-and-out saves I’ve pulled out of the hat over the years, it was my favorite day in the doctor business, ’cause we honored all the real people.

Dr. B