BACK IN 1953 I had just begun my practice in the small town of Clemson at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains in South Carolina. In the beginning I spent a lot of time reading medical journals and waiting for the local people to find out I was in town.
One August evening near dusk, my wife, Jane, and I were sitting in the swing when two farmers approached the porch and asked: "You the new doctor?" I nodded.
"Well, Doc, Daddy's down and sick and the doctor we called isn't treating him right."
Hunter WH. ‘Daddy'. Arch Intern Med. 1998;158(3):305. doi:https://doi.org/10.1001/archinte.158.3.305
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