Revisiting Dr. Bennett

Guest blogger Julie writes about visiting Dr. Bennett. He is now allowing people to read before their examinations.

Going to Dr. Bennett's office meant getting up early, early. He didn't take appointments - getting in to see him for your eye appointment was always first come, first served. The sky was still dim and the streets were empty when my Mom, younger sister and I drove to his office down Linwood Avenue into the heart of downtown Buffalo. In spite of how early we arrived, we'd have to park far down the street, because other people always got there first. We walked down the block toward his office, stopping frequently so my sister and I could fill our pockets with the mahogany horse chestnuts we found on the sidewalk. We climbed the steps to the old Victorian mansion where he lived and kept his office and passed through the front door in the the large parlor that served as his waiting room. I'd pick a clear spot in the corner and plop down on the floor so I could open my tote bag and spread out my books, papers and crayons all around me. No matter how early we came, there was guarenteed to be a long wait.

When my name was finally called, I'd always jump right up, even if I was lost in a book, because I loved Dr. Bennett. You'd step through the door into the former dining room of the house and there he would be, squatting on a rolling piano stool, smoking a cigarette and twinkling away at you like mad. He would chain smoke, wheeze and cough his way through every appointment, rolling around the room on his stool because he was too portly and too breathless to walk around. But he was just at eye level for a child. He always paid close and careful attention to everything I said and looked me right in the eye when he smiled.

After a few years of clucking over my increasing near-sightedness, he turned to my mother and told her that I just HAD to be made to set my books aside and go outside and play. She threw up her hands and said it was impossible to get me out of doors. So he turned to me, leaned forward with both hands on his knees, and said to me, "Do you like wildflowers?"

"Yes," I replied, perplexed at this nonsequitor.

"Then I want you to start identifying wildflowers. Make it your hobby," he ordered.

"OK," I said, obediently. My mother bought me a field guide to wildflowers. I went outside and started memorizing wildflowers. Last weekend I found red Bee Balm, yellow Butter and Eggs and blue Lobelias.