“It’s a doctor’s business to go where he’s called — come hell, or fire, rain, snow, mud, fog, wind, ice, as well as high water.” - Dr. Frederick Pritham
The kettle sighed, the birch logs cracked and spit,
And I, half-lost in thought, half-lost in it,
Took up a book - small binding, worn and plain,
But rich with snow, and hills, and wind, and rain.
There’s peace in Moosehead Lake at morning light,
When fog drifts low and shadows fade from sight,
And Pritham - Doctor Pritham - made his rounds
Across five thousand miles of northern bounds.
Greenville lay quiet in the pages told,
With townsfolk warm, and winters stark and bold.
He rode by horse, by boat, by freight train, by plane,
Through storm and snow, and sun, and pouring rain.
He drove through rutted roads, through sleet and snow,
To bring a newborn crying safely home.
No grandeur there, no lofty, learned air,
Just someone going where they needed care.
He stitched up woodsmen, caught the lost and wide,
Sat with grief, with birth and death beside.
He doctored life the way a neighbor would ...
Not for praise, but simply, as he should.
The rutted roads, the sleet, the drifting snow,
The horse-drawn sledge through night’s quiet glow,
The freighter rides, the swollen river’s flow,
All mapped the life he chose to bravely know.
I felt the cold wind rise from distant pines,
The crack of ice beneath his winter lines.
The boots that froze, the hands that shook and bled,
The candles lit for those asleep, or fed.
And reading that, I felt the world grow still,
As if I stood atop a pine-ridged hill,
And saw the old brass sign upon his door,
And smelled the boots still drying on the floor.
His life was lines and names, and quiet ways,
A lamp still burning late through snowbound days.
He kept no journal, carved no mark in stone -
Just left a town a little more well-known.
No fanfare needed. No parades to boast.
Just someone going where the need was most.
Through fog and fire, rain, mud, ice alike,
He moved with steady hands and quiet spike.
And when the fire sank low and shadows crept,
The book still warm, I leaned back as I wept.
Not tears for loss, but awe for a life well-spent,
For courage ordinary, quietly lent.
The logs popped once more, the kettle gave a hiss,
Outside, the wind rose faint along the rifts.
The northwoods whispered through the frozen eaves,
And still I felt the lessons he leaves.
What mattered, I realized, was not fame,
Nor how the world would learn or speak his name.
But that a life, committed day by day,
Could steady hearts in quiet, steadfast ways.
GBS
2013
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