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(back to page 5)
This was music to my ears. Physicians who practice general medicine typically are entirely different creatures than those who specialize. They are trained differently, they think differently, and they practice differently. The specialist has to know everything about a narrow field of medicine—especially the rare and uncommon disorders within their area of focus. The generalist must know the common—the breadth, if you would, of medicine.
The specialist cares for a single organ system, age-group, or gender—the generalist the entire family within his or her community. I recalled the observation of the famous internist Sir William Osier, who was reported to have said, "A well-trained, sensible family doctor is one of the most valuable assets in a community." The more Earl talked about what the local hospital was looking for, the more I knew that this town could be exactly what we were looking for.
Suddenly he stood, subtly indicating that our visit was over. "Well, I've kept you two far too long. We'll have plenty of time to visit tomorrow. You ought to get up to the inn. John and Ella Jo can't wait to meet you."
He then approached me and almost whispered, "John and Ella Jo have really been behind the move to bring some new, young doctors into the area. Not everyone agrees with them, especially some of our older doctors. But they can tell you more about this."
As we said good-bye and got in the car, Barb expressed my thoughts. "Walt, what are we getting into?"
"I don't know, honey. I don't know."
Chapter Three
THE HEMLOCK INN
As we left the Douthit's driveway, we turned up Galbreath Creek Road. Less than a mile up was the entrance to the Hemlock Inn—almost hidden in a large grove of massive hemlock and Georgia pine trees. The driveway turned steeply up and around what was to us flatlanders a small mountain—but was to the locals "just a hill." At the top, the driveway opened into a clearing with several small sprawling buildings cast over the knob and looking out over the mountains.
We parked and followed the signs to the registration area. Opening a screen door, we entered a rustic lobby. Overstuffed sofas and wooden rockers were scattered comfortably around the room. A small crackling fire was burning in the stone fireplace, giving the room both a nice ambiance and a pleasant aroma. Shelves of books ringed the room. Tables with puzzles partially -constructed and newspapers partially read were scattered across the room.
We walked out onto a side porch, with woven-seat rocking chairs strewn across it, to look out at the hills that were literally ablaze with color—reds and yellows were painted across the promontories, and amber and orange hues speckled the bluffs. The spectacular view all the way to the peak of the distant Frye Mountain reminded us of why so many chose to visit this wilderness area during the fall color season. I found myself placing my arm over Barb's shoulders, and she leaned into me, taking in and then releasing a deep breath. I had come to learn that this was a sign of satisfaction—that she was feeling comfortable and safe. I looked down at her and she up at me. She gave me a squeeze. "I think this just might be 'the' place."
I smiled. "Maybe so."
We looked back across the sensational expanse spread before us. We were indeed beginning to fall in love with this place.
"Well, well, well. Howdy, howdy, howdy," boomed a baritone voice, just before the sound of a slammed screen door greeted our ears. A tall, handsome man, in his fifties, I would guess, was rapidly strolling toward us. His smile was pleasant and welcoming, and his right hand reached out, seeking a mate.
"You must be the Larimores. Welcome, welcome, welcome."
He seemed to enjoy treble phrases.
"I'm John Shell, the proprietor of the Hemlock Inn. We are so glad you're here."
After introductions were made and vigorous handshakes dispensed to us all, including Kate, we were ushered to the rocking chairs where we had a bit of pleasant discussion. Between subjects, I asked, "Mr. Shell, tell me a little bit about this area."
"John! Please call me John. Now, are you sure you want to talk about that?"
"You bet!" I exclaimed. "History is an interest of mine, Mr. Shell—uh, John."
"Well, first folks in this area were the Cherokee Indians," John began. "Their land holdings have long since been stole from them, and many were forced to walk by foot to Oklahoma in what they called 'the Trail of Tears.' But many have returned, and the tribe has a strong pride that keeps the past alive through history and legends. The first white man known to walk these hills was William Bartram—who is described as having been an adventurous and courageous botanist. He came into this valley from the Nantahala Range in 1775. By that time there was an Indian village called Younaahqua, or Big Bear Springs. It was located on the present site of Bryson City. Later the village was called Tuckaleechy and later yet, Charleston."
"How do you remember all those dates and facts?" Barb asked.
"Oh, Barb, I just tell these stories so many times it's almost second nature," John chuckled. "But that's enough history for now. Let's go get you folks registered. You won't want to miss supper. Ella Jo is stirring up a right hearty dinner for you all."
(continued on the next page)
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