Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56352 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56352 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“Makes sense,” I said.
“I don’t understand it.” He gave me an apologetic smile. “But what can I say? We need all the help we can get.”
“Well, I’m sorry that I’m going to miss her.”
“Hey”—he flashed an index finger vertical in the air and, with his other hand, searched through the clutter on his desk— “would you mind maybe writing a little paragraph or so about yourself?”
“Okay. I can do that.”
“She told me, ‘It’s the people-stories that bring in donations.’” He found a pen and a pad of paper and handed them to me. “A young resident from Massachusetts decided to leave his cushy life and trek the mountains, bringing medical care to the disadvantaged. That sounds like the sort of thing she’d be interested in.”
I raised my eyebrows, pointed the pen at him, and smiled. “And, in addition to hiking the trail, bringing medical care to the disadvantaged, he came here also to find his birth parents.”
“Is that true?”
I nodded.
He motioned to the pad I was holding. “Definitely put that in there.”
7
Holly
I found a few articles Wendy had written online. I didn’t have to read much to realize I didn’t want to end up in any of her reports. Every person she wrote about was either desperate and depraved or hopelessly naïve and wasting good intentions on feeble efforts. I had a much different vision for the blog I was going to keep. Just like Mrs. Freedman, I was going to keep things fun, adventurous, and, by all means, with dignity for the individuals in my stories.
I had intended to visit the town of Suches before my twelve o’clock meeting with Doctor Raskin at Union General. But I woke up sore from my shoulders to my feet, so I decided, instead, to sleep in a bit then enjoy a simple, relaxing breakfast on the porch of the hotel. There, I could begin writing down my impressions.
The mountains kept me company, just beyond a small stretch of trees in front of the porch. Despite my sore muscles, I was eager to get back to them. I missed the trail already.
Harold, who ran the hotel with his wife Judy, offered to drive me to the hospital.
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but the hospital’s only a mile and a half away—spitting distance. And I don’t intend to get in a car for at least six months.”
He smiled and nodded. “I understand.”
I had never done much photography unless I was counting selfies and action shots with my phone. And the digital camera Mrs. Freedman had given me was far too fancy for my limited abilities. Fortunately, one of the nurses, Greta, was a photography enthusiast. She was able to show me how to get around on the camera, and we took photos together: photos of the staff with their patients, photos of the staff with the equipment. Some aspects of the hospital were clearly in need of an update, but more important than the equipment, the hospital was filled with caring, competent people eager to serve their community.
“I’m only sorry you couldn’t have come sooner,” said Doctor Raskin. “You could have met one of our volunteers: a doctor from out of town. Like you, he’s doing the trail and stopping in villages along the way, visiting hospitals, volunteering.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes, it’s too bad that I didn’t get a chance to meet him.”
“I figured that’s the thing you’d want to write about,” he said. “The people part of the story.”
I motioned to him with an open hand. “People like you, Doctor Raskin.”
He swatted away my comment. “Oh, me. I was born and raised here in Georgia. There’s nothing interesting about me. But this young man. He’s a colorful guy.” He reached for the shelf beside him, grabbed a pad of paper, and handed it to me. “I asked him to jot down some of his details in case you might want to include his story in your article.”
“Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.”
He stood and extended his hand. “Ms. Nestor, it was lovely meeting you.”
I was surprised. We had only just sat down, and I had hoped to get an interview. I shook his hand. “It was lovely meeting you, Doctor Raskin.”
“If you need to take more photos,” he said, “the hospital is at your disposal. But, if you’ll excuse me, I can’t keep my patients waiting.”
“Of course.”
I slipped the pad of paper into my bag, said a final goodbye to the receptionist and the nurses I crossed on my way out, and headed back into town.
It was a cool and breezy afternoon, perfect weather to sit with a warm cup of coffee on the porch of a quaint restaurant in historic downtown Suches and write my first blog entry.
The pad of paper Doctor Raskin had given me contained a two-page biography of a volunteer named Ryker Dennison. And the doctor was right. He was interesting, and his story was something I wanted to include in my article.