Not many folks know that I used to be a doctor. In my grandmother's eyes, anyway.
I was the lucky grandkid who got to survey oozing boils on request.
How'd I earn such a privilege? My dad's mom was a country girl
surviving in the city, all 70-odd years of it before she died in her
90's. She demonstrated how you really can't take the small country town
out of the girl. I don't think she did it on purpose. It was just her
nature to continually be both perplexed and mesmerized by the world
whirring around her while she made biscuits.
So when I -- a promising young home economist -- was required to complete an "internship" to secure my coveted college degree, it threw my Mamaw for a loop. She just knew that I was a physician in training.
She never quite understood it. But then, it's not easy for a lot of people -- especially country folk -- to grasp why on earth anyone would need to apprentice themselves for hands-on experience in daily life skills.
I bet you're all wondering now just what the heck this "internship" of mine consisted of...
So, anyway, I'm accustomed to the bewildered air of friends and even family who don't quite 'get' what I do for a living. Rather than feel compelled to explain in detail and at length, I like to think of their confusion as an opportunity to practice. It is (whatever it is I do), so it's good.
Onlookers were no less befuddled when I quit my social work career (and let me tell ya, some of y'all think weird thoughts about "social workers") to transform into a writer. Lest it sound like I'm doing some severe finger-wagggin in your direction, I should reveal that I, myself, didn't know what to call what I did for two years. If it weren't for some of my web-writing compadres, I wouldn't have thought to call myself a "writer" back in the day when most folks interacting on the Internet were dismissed as "geeks" and writing was something that was only bought and sold in print.
I still get to entertain some related FAQ's, even in this day and age of every missive being either duplicated or only available on your computer's screen. Back in the dawn of Internet time, the most common query from acquaintances was, "Oh, you're a writer -- have you written a book?" (Remind me someday to tell you how an older neighbor dissed my self-identification with "Oh, yeah! A writer. Aren't we all?") Now that most folks have caught up and figured out that someone is writing all the stuff they're reading online, they ask me, "What do you write?" Sounds simple enough. Most of the folks I run with understand the descriptions that come next. Some live happily in the dark still.
And then there are those who have some vague idea about how I'm spending my time. They're intrigued. Curious. Impressed even, sometimes. That's what they tell me, anyway, and I know they're not lying because they sometimes ask me to perform some of my occupational magic for them.
When my Mamaw asked me to "Take a look at this thing on my back," I would always look. Every time she asked. Sometimes I would respond to her worried "What do you think it is?" with a disclaimered diagnosis, always reassuringly benign. Sometimes I would bow out kindly with a murmur, "I'm not sure. Have you asked your doctor?"
That's what I do for blood-kin and loved ones. I look at their worrisome ugly stuff. I touch it if they think it's necessary. I render reassurance. Maybe offer an opinion, if they want one. Their comfort is my compensation.
I was the lucky grandkid who got to survey oozing boils on request.
So when I -- a promising young home economist -- was required to complete an "internship" to secure my coveted college degree, it threw my Mamaw for a loop. She just knew that I was a physician in training.
She never quite understood it. But then, it's not easy for a lot of people -- especially country folk -- to grasp why on earth anyone would need to apprentice themselves for hands-on experience in daily life skills.
I bet you're all wondering now just what the heck this "internship" of mine consisted of...
So, anyway, I'm accustomed to the bewildered air of friends and even family who don't quite 'get' what I do for a living. Rather than feel compelled to explain in detail and at length, I like to think of their confusion as an opportunity to practice. It is (whatever it is I do), so it's good.
Onlookers were no less befuddled when I quit my social work career (and let me tell ya, some of y'all think weird thoughts about "social workers") to transform into a writer. Lest it sound like I'm doing some severe finger-wagggin in your direction, I should reveal that I, myself, didn't know what to call what I did for two years. If it weren't for some of my web-writing compadres, I wouldn't have thought to call myself a "writer" back in the day when most folks interacting on the Internet were dismissed as "geeks" and writing was something that was only bought and sold in print.
I still get to entertain some related FAQ's, even in this day and age of every missive being either duplicated or only available on your computer's screen. Back in the dawn of Internet time, the most common query from acquaintances was, "Oh, you're a writer -- have you written a book?" (Remind me someday to tell you how an older neighbor dissed my self-identification with "Oh, yeah! A writer. Aren't we all?") Now that most folks have caught up and figured out that someone is writing all the stuff they're reading online, they ask me, "What do you write?" Sounds simple enough. Most of the folks I run with understand the descriptions that come next. Some live happily in the dark still.
And then there are those who have some vague idea about how I'm spending my time. They're intrigued. Curious. Impressed even, sometimes. That's what they tell me, anyway, and I know they're not lying because they sometimes ask me to perform some of my occupational magic for them.
When my Mamaw asked me to "Take a look at this thing on my back," I would always look. Every time she asked. Sometimes I would respond to her worried "What do you think it is?" with a disclaimered diagnosis, always reassuringly benign. Sometimes I would bow out kindly with a murmur, "I'm not sure. Have you asked your doctor?"
That's what I do for blood-kin and loved ones. I look at their worrisome ugly stuff. I touch it if they think it's necessary. I render reassurance. Maybe offer an opinion, if they want one. Their comfort is my compensation.
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