Medicine and Money/A Doctor Guy/Be What You Is

        I was a doctor guy, not a money guy.  I made a decent enough living, and never worried about my reputation as a businessman.  I guess it showed.  One time a consultant was in the office, and told me the reason I was in the 25th percentile for earnings was because I spent too much time thinking about my patients and not enough ordering tests.  That didn’t offend me.  I was happier that I’d made the 94th percentile on my Boards, and even more proud of how I got along with my patients.  I had a few I couldn’t talk turkey with, but for the most part we were a good team.  I feel like on a given day the odds for me to guide them through this complex modern medical system were as good as anybody’s.

        In spite of not being a financial home run hitter, I hope my doctor life was a success from the other aspects.  I once saw a bumper sticker that said, “He who dies with the most toys wins.”  Maybe it is un-American, but I never saw it that way.  I drove the same old Scout for a quarter million miles.  It was a reliable old horse, and got me back and forth to the hospital at night without fail.  I didn’t see any need to change.  I made enough to educate my children and we got our house paid off five years ago, so I think I did O.K. 

        Besides, the way I see it, I never went to work for a living.  All I do is walk around and be Dr. Bibey, and at the end of the month someone sends a check.  My wife says I’m gonna get all the way to the finish line and never go to work. That’s true- except for those summer jobs on the paving crew or in the cardboard box factory I didn’t.  I don’t go to work, I just live the doctor gig.  It is what I am.  I see my folks at church and go over their treadmill or x-ray report, and I’ve hit many a practice ball while I listened to a golf pal’s troubles.  I ain’t complaining.  At my age I’m just glad someone wants my opinion.  Without the doctor gig, I’m a second rate mandolin player and a third rate golfer, so I better hang onto it.  It was the only thing I was ever any good at.

        Once I heard someone ask the great Sam Bush about the pay scale in bluegrass music (it ain’t what it oughta be) and Sam just shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’m a music guy, not a money guy- I don’t know.”  I thought it was a great line, so I borrowed it from Sam.  “I’m a doctor guy, not a money guy, so I don’t know much about it.”  I figure as long as there are people on earth who can’t afford food, and my old buddies at the plant have to spend a huge chunk of their wage just to get to work, and as long as this society undervalues major contributors like teachers as much as we do, it would border on sinful for me not to be satisfied with my lot in life.

        I think Bill Monroe would say it something like this, “Be what you is, ’cause if you ain’t what you is you ain’t nothing.”  I appreciate you guys visiting me, ’cause the blog gig is only my attempt as an ordinary doctor guy to leave behind some of my thought process.  I figure the Internet is as good a place as any to record it.  All I could be was what I was, and if it helps anyone after I’m gone that’s all the better.

Dr. B 

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Exact Transcription

        Except for patient and institution name changes this is an exact transcription of a patient encounter.  It was from a month ago, though, ’cause I did not want to take any chances with a violation of her privacy.   

        “Ms. Smith, What’s your trouble?”

        “Lordy, Lordy, Dr. Bibey.  It’s my old bladder.  I went up there to Tobacco Triangle and they say they can’t operate no more.  They knowed you.  They said you’s a good doctor, and you’d know what to do.”

        “O.K.  Let me see if I got a letter.”

        “He said he’s gonna call you.  Did he not call?  He said he knowd you.”

          “Thank you ma’am.  No, I don’t think he called.”

        “He said he knowd you.”

        “I understand.”  I flipped through the chart.  “So how’s your bladder?”

        “Oh, I’s up all night.  Could you give me that white pill you gave me whenever your kids came out to the farm and looked at the donkeys?”  (My kids are now grown.)

        “Gee Ms. Smith, that was a long time ago.”  I remembered the donkeys, but I could not recall the name of the medicine.  “What was the name of it?”

        “Oh I don’t know, ain’t you got a list?  It was that white one.  Hmm.  Maybe it was pink.”  She turned to the lady who brought her.  “Was it white or pink, honey?”  Her friend shrugged her shoulders.  She didn’t know.  “Oh, Dr. Bibey.  You know.  That little bitty pill.  It was my when my cousin came in from Greensboro.  The one that died.  What was her name?”

        “I ain’t sure Ms. Smith.”

        “Well, It don’t matter, it think it was pink.”

        Did it start with a “D?”  I asked.

         “Yes sir, I think so.”

         “Well, let me check a specimen.  We’ll see.”

        I checked her and a urine specimen, too.  The diagnosis was bladder infection.  (I think.)  It is now a month later and she is fine, so I guess I was right.

        I tell you guys all that to make sure you know I am in a glamorous business.  It is just like on T.V. huh?  I guess I have job security; few want my job.  It does take a strange sort of personality to sort through all this for decades and not fall asleep at the wheel and miss an aneurysm when it surfaces.  To do it, you’d have to be some cat who wanted to live in the country and pick bluegrass music for a second job.  Sometimes I’m not sure there are enough of them out there, but I persevere on ’cause I think that is what I was put here to do, and I don’t question it.  And I didn’t have it too bad.  To paraphrase John Hartford, at least I didn’t spend my life working in tall buildings- it woulda never done for me.

Dr. B 

Gig at the Park

        The City Park decided to revive their tradition of local entertainment.  Before T.V. got so big, and long before the days of the Internet, all we had was the radio, the local movie house, and the Park as our sources of entertainment.  I remember when Dolly Parton came through and stood on a short stack of Co-Cola crates to sing into the mic.  We had groups like the Tams and the Shakers, and Jimmy Dean sung one called “Big Bad John.”

        So, when they contacted us start up the shows again, we were enthusiastic in spite of the fact the place still has a faint odor of musty sweat socks and gym shorts.  We are old gym rats anyway, so we didn’t care.  Besides, how often do you get to warm in old rasslin’ star Haystack Calhoun’s dressing room?  And it ain’t every day you get to grace the stage of an early Billy Graham crusade.  We were honored.

        Even though the Warbler (our lead singer) is just a young’un, he is a history major, and he understood the significance. It put him in the mind of old school, so we did a number of standards mixed in with some of our original material.  He got on a Larry Sparks kick and we did a few we had not rehearsed like “Blue Virgina Blue” and “John Deere Tractor.”  We did “Richmond” right off the top of our heads, and I threw in some trick mandolin licks I’d picked up from my teacher Ben.  The boys took notice and Moose told the audience I’d been back to school.  In music, like doctoring, you have to if you want to stay current.

        We only got tangled up once.  Warb told the crowd we were gonna do “Memphis” and I didn’t hear him.  I turned and asked him what we were gonna do next, and he said, “Poet With Wings.”  Then he told the crowd we were gonna do a Tom T. Hall number.  I was confused ’cause Pete Goble wrote “Poet.”  Anyway, I kicked it off and the boys expected “Memphis,” but they fell right in and no one knew the difference.  You gotta think on your feet in bluegrass.

        All in all, it was a fine gig, and at four bucks a ticket we drew quite a crowd.  You get what you pay for.  The Park only lost eighty-seven bucks, which was good for a first time festival, and they went ahead and booked us for next year.  It is good to add a few new ones on the schedule; Doc has to get out and play to be satisfied.

        And if history is any guide, maybe someday the kids who came to our show will say, “I remember when we used to have those shows at the Park.  Old Doc Bibey was there with Neuse River and…..”

Dr. B

Indian Summer/A Visit From Tag

        I was at the office and Indie called me from the Nursing Home.  “Hey, Bibey.  You ain’t gonna believe who came to visit me today.”

        “Who was that, Indie?”

        “Little Orphan Annie.”  Indie had a nickname for everyone, at least the folks he liked.

        “Tag?  What’s Tag doing in town?”  I asked.

        “I reckon some poor bloke’s in trouble.  It ain’t you is it?”

        “Not me, thank the Lord.  I don’t think there is even a case on deck in the County right now.”  Lucille Taggert, or Tag as I called her, was the rep for Physician’s Liability, the malpractice insurance carrier for about 80% of the docs in the State.  She was a big mover and shaker in that industry.  When Tag came to visit, it was most often a sign of a doc in trouble. 

        “Well, Indie, at least I know you ain’t in any trouble, unless you’re breaking curfew at the Home,”  I said.

        “Shut up, Bibey.  Nah, man.  I think she just came to pay a visit to an old warrior.”

        “Probably so, Indie.”  It was likely- I had e-mailed and told her I doubted Indie’d see his way through another winter. 

        I’ll never forget when Indie first met Tag.  It was in the Blinky Wallendorf case I’m gonna show you about in my book.  (I have Indie’s full permission.)  No doubt, Indie was in a world of trouble.  Betty Wallendorf was some kinda mad and hell-bent on revenge.  When Indie’s insurance company sent in the cavalry, and it was Tag and Mac, I thought he was gonna balk.

        “Bibey,” Indie whispered into the phone.  “They’ve done sent me two little ole college girls.  They ain’t gonna understand me at all.”

        “C’mon, Indie.  Give ’em a chance.  I’ve seen ’em work several cases.  Trust me, they are reliable gumshoes.  They’ll do everything they can to help you.”

        “Well they better, I’m in trouble.”

        “I know Indie, just calm down.  Didja see the article in Newsweek on whether or not women should be allowed in combat?”

        “No.”

        “Well, some wag wrote in and said he’d survived three divorces in California and he thought women were well suited to combat.  They’s them kinda women.  Tough as old sea salts.”

        You wouldn’t know it to look at ’em,”  Indie grumbled.

        I guess I could understand Indie’s concerns.  After all, Tag looked like a little red-haired school girl.  Indie said she coulda been Little Orphan Annie is the school play, and that’s where he came up with the nickname.  I called her Tag cause she was there every time you turned around, like a tag-along.

        And her sidekick Mac looked like she had escaped out of a sorority house from Meredith College.  Dark haired, young, quiet, she was almost shy.  It was hard to imagine how she she could be aggressive enough- until you got her in a courtroom, then it was dang ‘Beauty and the Beast’ I tell ya.  Indie had nothing to fear, but on that day, his first encounter, it took some reassurance.

        Those days were long gone though, and now they were old pals.  “So, what did she have to say?”

        “Oh, she wanted to talk about the old days.  You know what Bibey?  She said I was a better Doctor than what people knew, that I just good at hiding it from folks at times.”

       “Well, you were, Indie.  You were real good.  You’re the only Doc I know who memorized all his patient’s home phone numbers.  They loved you.  You were good to ’em.”

        “You don’t think she said it to make an old man feel better, do you?”

        “Come on, Indie.  Tag was never one for false praise.”

        “I guess you are right Bibey.  Hey, she clued me in on next year’s thoroughbreds.  Said to put my money on Bob-Tail Bobbie.”

        “How does she know that?”

         “She’s been into horses as long as we’ve played music.  Knows a fellow in Goldsboro who breeds ’em.  He says this is the best one he’s ever had- a direct descendant of Seattle Slew.”

        “Slew always was your favorite, Indie.  Just don’t get carried away with the bets.”  I worried over Indie’s addictive personality.

        “Hell, you think I’m gonna save it and will it all to you, Bibey?  I’m living large over here at the nursing home.  I’ll be dead before Christmas anyway.”

        “GG, Indie.”

        “Hey, little ole Annie even picked Barney’s brain.  (Barney was the skeleton Indie brought from his office- he kept Jim Beam stashed in the cranium.)  Smoked a cigar with me, too.  We placed some bets on the ponies, and then she left for Raleigh.

        “Dang, Indie, that’s not proper.  Tag’s young enough to be your daughter.”  (Picture a freckled Rene Zellweger sipping Jim Beam out of a paper cup with Indie at the Nursing Home and you have the image.)  “Besides, I wouldn’t bet against Tag on anything.”

        “Don’t matter, Bibey.  If I’ve miscalculated, I ain’t gonna have to pay up.  I’m gonna be outta here by Christmas, and I didn’t tell her that.”  Indie laughed.

        “GG, Indie.  Hey, what was that filly’s name again?  I’m gonna watch for her in the Derby.”

         “Bob-Tail Bobbie.  You do that Bibey, just don’t tell anyone, and if I ain’t here, collect my bets for me.  If I lose, you didn’t know nothing about it.”

        “Sure enough Indie; keep the faith.  I’ll be by to visit this weekend.  The boys are wanting to come over and pick some music.  I thought we might throw a few burgers on the grill and……”

Dr. B

You Grew up in the Country (or City) If…

         An old friend of mine named Tag sent me an e-mail that set me to thinking.  She has given me permission to show her her story in my book.  Tag was a big help to my friend Indie Jenkins when he was down and out, and any friend of Indian’s is a friend of mine.

        Tag is a character I know my readers are gonna love.  Her real name is Lucille Taggert, but in bluegrass a nickname is a sure sign of acceptance, and her nickname is Tag.  It came from Tag along.  Bless her heart, when Indie was in trouble she was there for him every step of the way.  Indie pretends to be a gruff sort, and he’d never say it, but I think he thinks of her like a little sister, or maybe even a daughter- she is a lot younger than Indie.

        If there was ever a modern women, Tag is the one.  She’s feminine enough, but you talk about one more tough nosed negotiator.  I can’t wait to tell you what all she did for Indie.

        In her e-mail, I was struck by how similar her background was to mine.  Nowadays, Tag is a business woman.  She wears business clothes, carries a briefcase, and is involved in high level negotiations.  She has not just succeeded in a man’s world, she’s dang near conquered it.

        However, when you look at some of her thoughts about growing up in the country, at one time she was just a barefoot little freckled young’un going down to the swimming hole.

        So, I decided this would make a good post.  “You know you grew up in the country if….”  I hope some of y’all will post some of your own.

        I don’t want my city people to feel left out though.  So as the mirror image to the headline, if you grew up in the city how ’bout posting on your experience.  “You Grew up in the City if…..”  That aspect would be more educational for me, ’cause I know very little of city life.  As always, I am interested in people and how they came about their unique perspectives.  

        So, here are Tag’s thoughts.  And by the way, she’s gonna  visit Indie at the Nursing Home soon.  When she does I’ll post about that, too.
 
Tag and Growing up in the Country

1.  Did you have one mom in your pack of friends who made the best 
     Kool-Aid (because she used a lot of sugar)?
 
2. If someone asked your favorite flavor of homemade ice cream, did 
    you really have a favorite?  Was the favorite, “any kind”?
 
3.  Was the sign of a good day playing indicated by the number of
    dirt rings on your neck & arms?
 
4.  How much did you like “innertubin”?

        I liked these, and I ain’t gonna add to ’em for now, but I hope you guys will.  And tell me about the city too- can’t leave out my blog pals there.

Dr. B

A Great Day For Golf

        It was a great day for golf here in the South.  Instead of a mid 90s blaze it was 85 with a light breeze, and it seemed like the wind was at our back all day.

        I knew we were in for a good day of it.  I drew “Doc” as my “A” player today.  Doc is not a real Doc, except he wanted to be a gynecologist until he flunked Organic Chemistry, but got his name ’cause his father was a Doc Watson fan. 

        Doc is a genuine “A” man who only missed the sectionals for the Senior Open by a shot two years ago, so he can play.  As good as he is, he never complains if you foul up.  When I missed a five footer for birdie on one hole, he said  “It ain’t nuttin’ but a thing Doc, there was a lot of chicken left on that bone,” which means no one makes ’em all and five feet is long enough you can’t feel too bad about it.  I wished I’d made it, but Doc knows how to keep the team’s spirits up.

        Doc was a house a fire today- shot 68- and I was my usual 78.  I play golf like I doctor- boring, predictable, few mistakes, no drama.  I guess I just wasn’t born to be a spectacular kinda guy.

        Our “C” man was Jean Claude, who turned 75 over the winter, so he got to move up to the gold tees this year.  Jean Claude moved here from France after the War, and still says “Merci” when you say, “Good shot.”  He might have a bit of age on him, but anyone who spent their summer vacations outwitting the Nazis is tough by definition.  He has a lot of great stories to tell about how they’d put sand in the German tanks at night to gum up the engines.  I’m glad they didn’t catch the little fellow.

        Jean Claude was a little upset today- he missed a putt on the last hole and shot 76.  It wasn’t so much he coulda shot his age, but if it’d gone in we woulda won the back nine bet, too.  Jean Claude is a team player from way back to his days with the French Resistance.  Doc shot 31 on the front, so we won the front and the overall.  I told Jean Claude not to worry.  It was just a thing, and there was a lot of chicken left on the bone- it seemed to make him feel better.

        As per family custom (for those of you new to the blog) I put the golf money I won at Marfar’s place at the table.  She wanted to take me out to eat and rent a chick flick.  I ain’t that much for chick flicks, but it’s her money, so I’m all about it.  If your wife wants to take you out to eat with her mad money, I figure a fellow is obliged to go and watch whatever she wants to see.

        After the match, I went to my eye appointment.  I was sure I was O.K. ’cause I saw everyone’s shots land all day.  I noticed Doc missed several of the right breakers- he coulda shot 65 easy.  I wonder if he has a cataract in his dominant eye.  I better call him when I get home.  Come to think of it, it’ll have to wait till tomorrow.  I’ve gotta catch a chick flick.

Dr. B

Weber, Weber, and Weber (A Tale of Three Mandolins)

        No, this is not a post on a law firm.  (Most Docs are scared of lawyers, but I have several good friends in that profession.)  This Weber is a luthier, and in particular is Bruce Weber, a mandolin specialist.  He also builds mandolas, arch top guitars, and a variety of related instruments.  I have three of his mandolins from three different eras.  After a quarter century as a semiprofessional performer I know mandolins almost as well as know anti-hypertensives.

        I own one of his 2008 Weber Yellowstone “F” style mandolins.  It is as fine an example of the instrument I have ever played, and I have had the good fortune to try quite a few over the years.  Mine is the honey colored one with tortoise binding.  (It is imitation tortoise for the environmentalists out there.)  I have looked it over a number of times and there is not a single flaw in the craftsmanship. 

        Of course how it sounds and plays is far more important than how it looks.  It has a crisp, clear tone, and notes with ease.  The old joke about mandolin as Italian for “out of tune” does not apply here.  The intonation is perfect all the way up the neck, and the slight radius to the neck makes it easier to play for old Docs with arthritic hands, though radius is a personal preference thing- he also makes plenty of them with a flat fret board. 

        As far as professional quality mandolins go, the Yellowstone is moderate in price.  I find it equal to or better than instruments that cost tens of thousands of dollars more.  This mandolin was closure for me- cure of a disease known as mandolin acquisition syndrome- the endless search for the holy grail.  I have given up even my old daily habit of perusal of the classified ads.  The hunt is over.

        I have another Bruce Weber instrument from the 1990s, and I have even more emotional attachment to it, because my wife gave it to me.  It does not say Weber on the headstock, but it was also built by Bruce Weber.  It is from a famous company, but for legal reasons I do not wish to disclose the name.  I have several lawyer friends, but I have no interest to test their skills in any legal battles.  Back in those days even though Mr. Weber was building for another company, the mandolins were also excellent.  My daughter is learning to play and has this one right now.

        Then from the 1980s, I have yet another one from yet another company, but again built by the same Mr. Bruce Weber.  Again I cannot name the company.  This mandolin is an “A” style, and was retrofitted with a McIntyre pick-up.  At this time, it is out on loan to Darrell for a series of gospel performances.  I believe Mr. Weber uses McIntyre as his standard pick-up when he installs one at the factory.

        Mr. Weber has built fine mandolins for several decades, but as he says, now that his name is on them they are better than ever.  It is unsolicited, and I am a doctor, not a touring mandolinist, but IMHO (bluegrass for in my humble opinion) there are none better.  As far as my mandolin, I don’t leave home without it.

        If some of you mandolin aficionados out there want to guess the name of the corporations I will tell you if you are correct, but I won’t print the full names of the companies he built for before he started Weber Mandolins.  I have been successful to avoid legal trouble for all these years as a Doc, and I sure ain’t gonna get in trouble over my little mandolin.  But it is sure enough a good’un- the best in my book.  Y’all go check out Mr. Weber’s web site- Weber Fine Acoustic Instruments.  I think I’ll go practice, his mandolins sure are fun to play.

Dr. B

U.S.Open Wrap Up

        My conclusion:  Tiger Woods won the 2008 U.S. Open, but Rocco Mediate did not lose.  What a performance by both players.

Dr. B  

Father’s Day/U.S Open Update

        Since it is Father’s Day, I’m gonna send this out to my Dad.  He taught me a lot of things.  The most important one was to treat patients with respect and dignity.  He is the all time master.  I fall short, but I try to be that good. 

        My dad also started me on golf.  I won’t say he taught me, ’cause neither one of us had the foggiest notion of how to play.  He thought it would be a good thing for us to do together, so he got some clubs and we took it up.  The only time we played was nine holes after church on Sundays.  When I’d hit it right, he’d say, “Son, you hit it just like Arnie.”  I never hit one like Arnie in my life, but if your Dad says it is true, you believe it, so I kept at it.  I learned to play O.K. but Dad also said I didn’t need to give up my day job.  (My folks viewed my studies as my day job.)  Dads need to be honest, and I’m glad mine was.  I was better with books than a wedge for sure.

        U.S. Open Sunday is Father’s Day every year.  I like the Open.  It is so democratic.  After all, if you have a two handicap or better you can fill out an application and try to qualify.  We’ve had a few of our choose-up “A” player do just that, and some of it made it through a stage but none have gone to the big show yet.  We are proud of every one who gets good enough to give it a whirl.  Whether or not they get there is immaterial.

        The Open is so American.  Everyone has a chance.  Of course the odds that good amateur is gonna get in, or even make the cut, much less win the thing, are astronomically small.  But the U.S.G.A. makes provisions for the cat to have the opportunity, and I hope they never change on the notion.  Everyone who plays needs to be able to hold to the dream.  On the right day, they could win.

        Early on there is often someone to emerge like the Hicks gentleman who led the first day.  Most of the time they fade back into the pack as the tournament wears on.  Do not be confused.  They are still fabulous players.  We have a fast group at River Run, and we’d take him as an “A” player every day.  The only debate would be how many strokes the guy would have to spot everybody.  By definition, if he even got there he is very dang good.

        I was all about D.J. Trahan this year.  He is from S.C.  A couple of our best choose up players have played with him.  One year he came over on a Monday and worked with some of our First Tee kids.  No one knew about it.  That speaks even more to me than his golf game, which is considerable.  His father Don is about my age, and Mr. Trahan and D.J.’s short game coach come through here every so often for a money match.  I have played with them, and that story warrants another post.  D.J. comes by his talent honestly; his dad is a fine player, and a respected swing coach.  (His byline is: “The Swing Surgeon.”)  Until they added the short game man to the team, Mr. Trahan was his son’s only instructor.  You can’t argue with results; all three of them know golf.  In fact they live, breathe, eat, and sleep it.  I wish D.J. coulda won; it would have been quite a Father’s Day for him and his Dad.  Still he had a fine tournament (tied for 4th), and I think his name will be on the trophy before it is all over.

        If D.J. couldn’t win, Rocco Mediate was a good one for me to pull for.  I mean, the guy is “old,” (though 45 seems young to me) hits a low hook, and has a bad back.  How could I pull against a guy like that?  Yep, the Open is democratic.  Rocco is a fine player, and has won several tournaments on the pro tour, though it has been a few years.  He had a few tough years due to injuries, and only got in the Open this year via the qualifiers.  If he were to win, he’d be the oldest U.S. Open champion in history. 

        Man, you couldn’t help but pull for Rocco.  He had a big peace sign for a belt buckle and a half dozen U.S. Open pins on his hat.  He waved and smiled to the crowd- you could tell he enjoyed the whole scene.  Rocco grew up In Pennsylvania, just down the road from Arnold Palmer’s hometown of Latrobe, and they say Arnie was pulling for the hometown boy.  

        What can you say about Tiger?  The guy has a hurt knee and somehow birdies the last hole to tie Rocco for the championship.  They will have an eighteen hole playoff tomorrow.  I guess I have to leave what kinda accolades would ever suffice to the pro sportswriters, ’cause I can’t think of enough superlatives.  I have been around long enough to meet Gene Sarazen (he was past his playing prime at the time, though) and saw Hogan, Snead, Player, Palmer and a bunch more over the years.  I thought Jack Nicklaus was so dominant we’d never see a player like that again.

        Tiger, though, does things with a golf ball I’ve never seen and can’t understand- and does so even when he is hurt.  I think he’s gonna be player of the century.  We all said it when Nicklaus came through and got proved wrong, but I don’t think we’ll see another like him in my lifetime.  It is fun to watch someone that good, and to see history in the making.  My grand-kids will still talk about Tiger.  They’ll know, ’cause I’ll sit ’em on my knee someday and tell ’em all about it.

        Win or lose, though, I’m gonna tell ’em about Rocco, too.  What a performance.  He is my new middle aged hero regardless of how things play out tomorrow.

Dr. B

Friday the 13th, My Lucky Day

       Pogo used to say Friday the 13th was on Tuesday this month.  I realize most folks think Friday the 13th is unlucky, but I never have seen it that way.

        I have been lucky my whole life, and Friday the 13th is extra lucky for me.  As a kid, I loved baseball.  On Friday June 13th, 1952, the Cubs beat the Braves (they were in Boston then) five zip.  How often do ya figure the Cubs are gonna kick the Braves a** like that?  And the Cleveland Indians whupped the Yankees 7 to 1.  Nearly shut ’em out.  That doesn’t happen every day.  I guess the Braves and the Yankees wouldn’t see it the same, but I figure Friday the 13th is lucky.  I pull for the underdog without fail. 

        Even today in golf I like the underdog.  I have nothing against Tiger.  When he is on he is the best player on the planet, and I admire his work ethic too.  But here is something cool to me when a a guy like Craig Perks wins the TPC.  He is on T.V. with a trophy and a check for a million bucks, his wife there by his side.  She had stood by him through a lot of lean years.  Her tears are of joy; not ’cause of the money, but because she knows what it means to the man. 

        It’s like perpetual P.G.A. tour rabbit Rocky Thompson, a former mayor of Toco, Texas said when he won his first tournament.  He had been around for years, and was on the senior tour when he got that first win.  (This is paraphrased)  “There it is.  My name on the trophy,” he said as he caressed the prize.  “No matter how long goes by or how hard they rub or polish this thing, my name ain’t never gonna come off.  For one day, and one day only, I was the man.”  Great stuff.  Shoot, it is why I gotta pull for the underdog.  For all I know, some unknown writer might get published one day, and I’m all for every one of ’em.  We all gotta hold onto to hope huh?

        Like I say, Friday the 13th is lucky for me.  It was the day I met my mom, and she was a sweetheart right from the start to go through all that for me.  I was lucky to have good folks, and also to find a fine wife years ago who puts up with all my eccentricities.  Believe me, a cat who practices medicine full tilt, plays in a bluegrass band, and also loves golf is a handful.

        In addition I was lucky enough to surround myself with a fine office staff.  Most of ‘ em have been with me since day one.  They know me almost as well as my wife does.

        Years ago someone had a surprise birthday party for our local cardiologist, Dr. Boykins Douglas. They hired a stripper (Well, she wasn’t a stripper, but she was close enough to it I was glad my daughter wasn’t there) from Raleigh to dance.  I remember his helpless look as this woman danced around him.  They put some kinda strange headgear on him that made him look like a Moose, and strung a lei around his neck.  I could tell he didn’t like it, but had no choice but to go along.

        We all went back to the office and I told Lynn O’Carroll if on my birthday they hired some woman like that I’d fire every d_ _ _  one of them.  (I have found if you don’t cuss but once a decade it has more effect.)  One of the new employees at the time didn’t believe it, and said, “Dr. B?  He wouldn’t do that!”

        “I wouldn’t test him,” was Lynn’s simple reply.  They didn’t.  Lynn always did have good judgment.  My wife and kids know me better than anyone.  But after them, my core office staff of Lynn O’Carroll, Myrd, Mama Paig, and little Marcie Presto have got me figured better than anyone else.  (Although some of y’all are getting there, too.)

        Today is Friday 13th.  They had a party for me, and it was just what I would have ordered myself.  The chow of choice was Chang’s Chinese, where I go every Friday.  One year my Marie was coming home from college.  As she drove into town that Friday she looked at her watch.  It was 12:45.  She figured I’d be at Chang’s so she drove by there instead of to the office.  Sure enough, there I sat along with the Moose, Barry Graylord, and Dr. Dee.

        “Hey sweetie, howdja know I’d be here?”

        “Just a guess Daddy.”  She knows me well.

        The birthday party at the office today was a good’un.  Chang’s Chinese was the usual fabulous, and Dr. Dee pulled out the office Martin and led everyone to sing “Happy Birthday.”  I’ll go home tonight to my Marfar, and my boy is due in tomorrow to play golf.  My daughter is on a Habitat trip, but will be home Sunday.  I have always been lucky; I am surrounded by people who get me.  It is all you can ask for.

        Shoot fire, how are the Mets doing this year?  It sounds like another year for them to win the World Series.  I’m all for the underdog, be it in baseball, golf, or country docs lucky enough to be born on Friday the 13th.  It might be their year to win.  Even more improbable it might be mine to figure out a way to get published.  Who knows?  You gotta dream and I feel lucky.  After all, I have been lucky my whole life, so why change now?

Dr. B