The Legendary Lad

by Billy K. Baker, local columnist --  “Can so,” said he. “Can not,” sneered they. “Can too!” said he, and with that … he leapt into legend! His two chums stood a-gape, stood aghast. What had they done?! They had teased; they had taunted; they had urged; they had goaded; they had dared; they had double-dared. And now? They were not bad boys—just boys: curious, carefree, cruel, reckless, fickle, irresponsible … craving adventure. And, why not? Weren’t their lives too regulated, too regimented? Readin’, writin’, ‘rithmetic drummed into them year by year. Parents ever hounding: “Wash your hands. … Brush your teeth. … Comb your hair. … Eat your vegetables. … Do your chores. …” All they really wanted, yearned for, was freedom, for liberty, for a chance to explore, to imagine, to dream. Just boys. The two departed Promontory Point quietly, contemplating what just happened, what they had caused, unaware their lives had changed forever. Arriving home, they were no longer “just boys.” One would embark on an exacting task—becoming a doctor, a country doctor, the town’s only doctor, the town small, little more than a village. His office was “hat-boxed” size, an afterthought of sorts, at the rear of the general store. He used it as a study, to keep up-to-date with medical science. The doctor paid more for medical books and journals than comfort allowed, and that impelled him to live frugally. Moreover, he didn’t ask payment for services but accepted with good grace whatever was offered. Farmers were poor then, and might only give a chicken or a meal or, in sad cases, a simple, heartfelt thank-you. Townsfolk were better off generally, and by comparison generous. Indeed, the town’s rich banker once presented a fine horse in gratitude: the doctor having remained steadfast with the banker’s son—who’d fallen from a tree, hit his head on a low branch, and persisted in a precarious, nerve-racking coma for three days. Before receiving the horse—a sturdy, steady chestnut mare with white blaze and gentle eyes—the doctor walked his circuit in all weathers, all seasons, visiting homes to check on patient progress, providing cures for ailments, mending broken bones, performing surgery—usually at a kitchen table—helping the elderly, especially widows, most of whom needed only company, someone to take a cup of tea, someone with a sympathetic ear—the best medicine for loneliness. Even after getting the mare, the doctor continued walking his circuit, the horse beside him … except in an emergency. Then, he would ride hell-bent-for-leather over rough roads, into heavy brush, through dark woods, risking his life to help another. Only horse sense and Providence kept him safe. During the years while he traveled his circuit, the town grew and prospered. And upon the doctor’s death, town councilmen conceived the idea of erecting a statue to honor him. On the day they unveiled it, everyone for miles around attended a memorial service at the town park. Today, strangers wonder why the statue has the doctor walking his horse instead of riding it. As for the legendary lad’s other chum, he pursued a career in the clergy—an arduous, often discouraging journey. Many years passed before he preached at a church of his own. During those years, he assisted strict, strait-laced clergymen: serving them, and also serving the needy in various communities. Transferred every year or so, he could never settle down even modestly. Service was his byword, his guiding light. He took for inspiration the story of the Good Samaritan in the Holy Bible, giving of himself to the despondent, the desperate, the destitute. More than once, he went hungry so a poor family would have a meal. He organized charities, visited prisoners, comforted the dying, consoled the bereaved—tasks he continued performing when he gained his own church. The preacher’s sermons there were uplifting, inspiring. He emphasized the Golden Rule, told his congregation to respect strangers, to welcome neighbors, that—thanks to Jesus—their sins were forgiven, that God wanted them to “try hard every day.” He didn’t dwell on Christ’s suffering at the cross, instead celebrated the Resurrection. His sermons offered hope, not fire-and-brimstone. The preacher’s wedding ceremony advice was so well-regarded that church elders memorialized his words on a bronze plaque: Trouble and travail will come. Know that they are transitory. Love one another. Forgive one another. Serve one another. Know that goodness is eternal. The plaque resides at the church entrance, and its inscription continues to advise the newlywed (and the not so newly wed) to this day. As for the legendary lad, the one who leapt off Promontory Point, his legend was short-lived, lasting only one or two school years. He survived that long flight, of course. ‘Twas its landing did him in.       Sign up to receive updates and the Friday File email notices. Support local, independent news – contribute to The Fallon Post, your non-profit (501c3) online news source for all things Fallon.