Their features smoothed out, changed, after the healing hands of my father had patched up these accidents. My sister and I watched from the upstairs windows as the patients who left the house. They seemed whole in our minds, once again.
I think of Dad often. I admit that over the years I’ve glorified him. I’m not sure I did that when he was alive. I took my father for granted.
Dad was raised by a caring mother and father. My grandfather came to Utah in 1901. He was a cooper — a barrel maker. His business grew with the addition of scrap iron. My dad’s brothers went into the family business, but not Milton.
From his earliest school years, Dad set his sights on medicine as a career. He worked after school and on weekends as a gofer and delivery boy for a wholesale drug company that eventually turned into Walgreens.
Salt Lake was somewhat isolated culturally from the rest of the country. It had all the trappings of Hometown, USA. Ultra-wide downtown streets. Water fountains on many corners bubbling up year-round with fresh, cool, spring water. And it was possible to be a one-man-medical-office doctor.
Dad set up his practice in 1932. He welcomed patients of all colors and ethnicities. He was one of two doctors in town who treated minorities. He never thought he was blazing a new trail that made him something special. People got sick, or needed an operation or had an accident. He was a doctor.
He sometimes took me with him when he made house calls. I waited in the car, which reeked of pipe and cigar smoke. But when he got back and slid his black bag into the back seat, he lit his pipe and then he began to talk. He always had something to share with me about his experience in his patients’ homes.