THROUGH
MOUNTAIN MISTS
Early Settlers of
Their
Descendants...Their Stories...Their Achievements
Lifting the
Mists of History on Their Way of Life
By: Ethelene Dyer Jones
Respected
mountain doctor, Herbert Monroe Edge
Dr. Herbert
Monroe Edge (1892-1974) was a respected mountain doctor whose care for
many people throughout
I remember Dr.
Edge as a kindly man who attended my mother in the last period of her
life. Making house calls was still in vogue in the years when he
practiced. If he was at our house near mealtime, my father always
invited him to eat with us. I can remember that I, as a "child cook,"
would feel that our country fare, and especially my inept cooking,
would not be good enough for this noted man, our family doctor. But
after he prayed the blessing, he always ate with relish and
appreciation whatever we served him from our garden
and farm.
I was often
beset with sore throats (needing a tonsillectomy which I had several
years later). My father would instruct me to get off the school bus at
Dr. Edge's house and have him "paint" my throat with iodine, a
procedure I dreaded with a passion. But with that treatment, and other
medications Dr. Edge would administer, I would walk the distance to the
high school from his house and my sore throat would be bearable. Dad would, in turn, stop later to pay Dr. Edge
for my doctor's visit. It was just such a trusting relationship that
Dr. Edge had with his patients and their families.
Dr. Edge was
not born in
When Herbert
Monroe was 6, the family moved to
At age 20,
Herbert Monroe Edge had the strong impression that there was more he
should do in life than walk behind a plow. He enrolled in
Dr. Edge did
his internship at
Dr. Edge's
medical career spanned over 50 years. He was a compassionate doctor and
held the care of his patients as a sacred trust. He attended the birth
of babies and stood beside a bed when a patient was near death. From
1936 through his death in 1974, he was a loving doctor to Blairsville
and
When Dr. Edge
died
Dr. Edge
enjoyed collecting antique clocks and had them scattered throughout his
house. I can remember admiring some of them as I stopped by his office
to get help for my ailing sore throat when I was a teenager. Much time
has passed since those days in the 1940s when he cared for my sick
mother and when the clocks ticked and chimed from rooms near his office
in his home on
c2007 by Ethelene Dyer Jones; published
[Ethelene
Dyer Jones is a retired educator, freelance writer, poet, and historian.
She may be reached at e-mail edj0513@windstream.net;
phone 478-453-8751; or mail
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