Is there a doctor in the house?
Arriving home exhausted, I flew into a panic hearing a voice-mail message informing me that my landlord’s son wants to move into my home, and that I have to relocate. Again. “I’m having a heart attack!” I cried, grateful that that was a doctor in the house. “What on earth am I going to do? Where will I go?” After pretending to check my vitals, the doc assured me that I would live. “You’ve been touring me around this gorgeous region for days,” he intoned. “My professional advice? Make lemonade.” Since I don’t care for the stuff, it took a moment to realize that he was speaking metaphorically and I groaned.
Reviewing our visit, my pal made a list. “You have scads of friends,” he said. “Start by putting the word out. I’m pretty sure that your vast network can help you find a permanent place to rest your weary bones. Aside from that, each town you took me to, every hamlet that you love, has a hidden gem that is just waiting for you and the Wonder Dog to call home.
“Write about it,” he said. “You don’t need a doctor, you just need a house call.”