All of us have had times in our lives that we have looked up too or admired someone else. Our parents are always glad if those people don’t wear stripped clothes or bright orange one-piece suits. Besides my father and a few other family members most of these hero’s were school teachers, youth leaders or parents of one of my friends.
One friends Dad’s falls into this category. Most of the people that know him called him Doc. He had a private practice in a small town for a number of years and then decided to specialize as an anesthesiologist. I’ve told a number of stories about his son whom is one of my best friends. After we graduated from high school and I was ready to go away for a couple of years. Doc came up to me and thanked me for keeping his son out of prison! Now I don’t think he would have ended up in prison – but, if I recall his brother was in a Mexican prison while in medical school until this friends could raise enough money to get him out. Doc was the last of the old time classics, I remember going to their house and having a stuffy nose and a couple of other symptoms. He started to question what I felt like and then walk to the fridge and take out a syringe and a vile where the eggs should have been, then told me to pull down my pants to give me a shot. His kitchen was like a satellite office for wayward children. I never asked any questions and it didn’t happen very often.
There were three of us that use to always hang out – and Doc had two names for us, the three Musketeers and the Purple Pansies. The Three Musketeer was the least original but was a lot easier to accept than the Purple Pansies. No one wanted to be known as a pansy. Maybe that’s why his son was so tough – you know kind of like the Johnny Cash song a “Boy Named Sue.” Sue sure turned out tough as he got the business everyday at school from the other kids. Doc was one of the nicest and caring individuals I ever met, but he had the grip like a vice. He use to take my hand and pinch the back of my arm tell I was ready to cry, maybe that’s why he called me a pansy. He also knew that I came from a family with less money – so he would let us work on their ranch weeding Christmas Trees or haling hay. He always seemed to pay a bit more than the normal person. His brother would hire us to do his hay as well; he would compare us to some of his old workers like Merlin and Phil Olsen – both of which played for the Rams. Maybe that’s why they called us pansies, they were comparing us too part of the Fearsome Foursome.
After Doc retired he spent a lot of time in a free clinic for those that couldn’t afford medical attention, no it wasn’t in his kitchen. He always complimented me on my achievements and made me feel like I was important despite the cast on my hand after shaking his. Doc was in a rest home for a while and didn't always know what was going on. My father suffered from Alzheimer’s for more than seven years before he died – it doesn’t seem fair that someone that gave so much was totally assisted by others. Doc has since passed away, not only is he a great man but is one of my hero’s, despite his son almost getting me thrown into prison.
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