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and walked up to the gracious manor where we were to dine. What was then known as the Frye-Randolph House was originally a small Victorian lodge, built in 1895 by Captain Amos Frye. The captain later expanded it to an L-shaped plan, complete with lovely gables and a stone-pillared porch. Captain Frye and his wife, Lillian, lived in the house while the captain’s palatial Fryemont Inn was being constructed just up the hill. After the captain’s death, Lillian, by then the first practicing female attorney in western North Carolina, continued to practice law and run the inn until her death in 1957.
    Dr. Mitchell and Dr. Cunningham were sitting outside with their wives, and they stood as we approached. Introductions were made all around. Gay Mitchell and Nancy Cunningham were the kind of sparkly people everyone instantly falls in love with. Their smiles were gracious and their laughter was infectious. We immediately liked them both—Gay the louder and more buoyant, effervescent, and outgoing; Nancy the more quiet and reserved. Unlike their husbands, both had been raised elsewhere, but they were quick to share with us their newfound love for the mountains and Bryson City.
    The dinner bell rang, and we were escorted into what appeared to be a beautifully kept private home. Only the tourist brochures on one wall gave away the purpose of the Frye-Randolph house. We were shown into a private dining room where rich linens covered the table and candles glowed warmly. Our five-course meal was accompanied by light, friendly conversation. The proprietor and his wife, Bill and Ruth Adams, were in and out of the room—obviously great friends of our hosts and most hospitable to Barb, Kate, and me.
    After dinner we were shown to the sitting room. A small fire was burning in the fireplace, and as Ray lit his pipe, the room’s aromas were heady and warming.
    â€œWalt,” said Bill “Mitch” Mitchell, almost sounding stern, “Ray and I think you’d be a great addition to our medical staff. And we’d love for you to join us in our practice—at least until your new medical office can be built. But I’ve just got one concern I need to discuss with you.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked. My curiosity grew as Gay pulled out a folded sheaf of papers from her purse.
    Mitch unfolded the papers, looked them over, and then handed them to me. “Is this the paperwork you sent to the hospital?”
    I looked at the papers, instantly recognizing them. “Yes, this is the list of medical and surgical privileges I’ve asked for. I filled this out for Mr. Douthit before we made our trip out here. Is something wrong?”
    â€œSure is. Look at page 5.”
    I turned to page 5. It was a request for surgical privileges—cholecystectomy, appendectomy, fracture repair, hip replacement, upper gastrointestinal endoscopy, colonoscopy, breast biopsy, skin grafts, and a plethora of other surgical procedures. The page was blank. I had not checked any interest in applying for any of these privileges, because I had not been trained in any of these procedures.
    â€œWhat’s the problem, Dr. Mitchell?”
    â€œWell, you didn’t mark that you wanted any of those privileges.”
    â€œThat’s true, I don’t. I’d plan to assist you and Ray with most of these. But I’m not trained to do them as the primary surgeon.”
    Mitch looked incredulous. Ray chimed in, “Told you!”
    Mitch looked at him a bit sharply and then back at me. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? You mean them boys at Duke didn’t train you to be a doctor? How can you practice out here if you can’t do these things?”
    I smiled. Ray broke the silence, nicely expressing my sentiments. “Mitch, that’s what I told you. I know that in your day doctors were trained to do it all. But not in these days. Family physicians like Walt, just like the ones I trained with at