My Father Was a Country Doctor

“MY FATHER was a country doctor.” With those words a lot is being said for a group of professional men of the early 20th century. They were a breed to themselves. Many of them were dedicated to their profession, tireless, and unusually kind to their patients. Country doctors were an asset to their community and especially to the poor and the sick that they treated.

They seemed to have a sixth sense in diagnosing ailments; perhaps it was their wide experience with so many ills. This they did without modern technology. It is not that they were an uneducated group or untrained in their field. My father was first educated as a schoolteacher and later went on to Starling Medical School in Columbus, Ohio, which later became part of Ohio State University.

Let me tell you what it was like to be a doctor at that time​—without antibiotics and miracle drugs. In fact, most of the time they carried the pills and potions with them in a little black bag. Or, if in their office, they could give you a green tonic, a white salve, or a black salve, according to the case. The remedies were sold to Daddy by the “drug drummer” on one of his frequent visits to my father’s office. So the country doctor was somewhat schooled in pharmacy, and seldom did the patient have to go to an often distant drugstore to fill a prescription.

In the beginning Dad traveled by horse and buggy. Later he owned a Model T Ford, which had to be started by cranking. I can remember the cold mornings and how he cranked the Ford​—which really did not want to start! As a rule my father was a mild man, but this effort could bring out words that should have instantly warmed the engine sufficiently for immediate starting!

But sooner or later the old Ford would start, and Dad would be off to visit the sick. Even in the wee hours of the morning the phone would ring, and he would get out of a warm bed to go off in the night to try to help the sick. Yes, in those days the doctors came to you, even though you might have been well enough to go to them!

And their bedside manner! When the country doctor would walk into the patient’s room he would breathe confidence, he would be tender, truly concerned. He might comfort a young woman who, scared and in pain, was giving birth to her first child. Or he would put his cold hand on your forehead when you were burning up with fever. You were sick, and he had come to offer his personal attention, which was like a balm to your pain. Then he would reach down into his little black bag, fiddle around with its contents, bring out a pill, and tell you to take it and that he would be back when you needed him.

The country doctor’s knowledge was well rounded. Not only could he set a broken bone or assist mothers to bring their babies into the world, but at times he had to fight infectious diseases. In the small town where we lived in West Virginia, there once was an epidemic of typhoid fever, which was not uncommon in those days. Dad nursed more than a few back to health. In fact, later we were told that his name was on record as outstanding for having never lost a patient to typhoid fever!

And He Could Pull Teeth Too!

Yes, and he could pull teeth, too, and this for a fee of 50 cents. Perhaps he was overpaid when you take into consideration how it must have hurt in comparison to modern extractions of teeth. One cold, wintry night a man came to our house and begged Daddy to come and pull his father’s aching tooth. The road to his house was too bad even for a horse and buggy, so Dad rode horseback to the man’s house, which was six miles (10 km) up a dirt road. This he did for 50 cents!

Then came the Spanish influenza in 1918-19. My father was busy literally day and night. People were desperate for a doctor’s help. Sometimes if a house was at the end of a lane, after making that call, he would be stopped at almost every house on his way back to the main road. In our own family, four of us had the flu, and finally Dad was so worn out that he came down with it too. But thanks to him, we all survived.

The Country Doctor​—Well Paid

And the pay for all of this? In a sense, Dad was well paid. He received great satisfaction from helping others. He was well liked, and many a baby was named after him. In fact, some even named their babies after his little daughters that he sometimes took along with him.

As to money, well, Dad got along on what would seem like a small salary today. Most country doctors somehow had enough energy to care for a big garden and keep a cow and chickens to help out. At harvesttime, their payment from patients was often in the form of apples, potatoes, sausage, hams, and whatever else the farmers grew or raised. If a patient had some misfortune, such as a crop failure, well, Daddy could and did wait for his money. And more than once he gave a patient some money to help him along in time of sickness when he could not work.

One day Dad came back from a call and told us children to come out to the buggy to see something. He opened a box, and out popped a puppy​—his pay for a house call. No dog could have been more loved than Bruno, who became part of the family.

At our home in Elm Grove, West Virginia, my father’s office, with its supply of medicine, was part of the house. No matter who came to the office at mealtime, they would be invited to eat with us at our table. Dad was very hospitable, and no one ever left our home hungry. Sometimes if they lived far away and it was snowing, they could even spend the night with us.

The Great Cure

It was a wintry night in 1929. While Dad was returning from a house call, his car was struck by a bus. After two weeks in the hospital, he died; he was 57 years old. Many were those who came to pay their respects to the country doctor whom they still owed for his visits. No matter, we never suffered because of Dad’s kindness to others. In fact, when kindness is shown to me, I feel that it is a reward for having a father who was a country doctor.

Now, all of this is not to underestimate the modern doctor and the marvelous things he can do. Just recently a little friend of mine, only ten years old, had brain surgery. The operation lasted six and one-half hours​—without the use of transfused blood. My father, in his wildest dreams, could never have helped this boy with the knowledge and experience available to him.

But even the modern doctor has his limitations. He too sees misery and death. The country doctor as well as the modern practitioner each belong to an era. But the blessed time will come when the Great Physician will bring in a lasting cure, and “no resident will say: ‘I am sick.’” (Isaiah 33:24) I have every reason to believe that my father, the country doctor, will be there and be given the opportunity to rejoice in the everlasting health of all humanity.​—Contributed.

[Blurb on page 22]

In those days the doctors came to you, even though you might have been well enough to go to them!

[Blurb on page 23]

Dad opened a box, and out popped a puppy​—his pay for a house call