The Ganoch Doctor
by
Lori Roke Stine

Dear Lord! I haven’t a clue as to why I picked this spot to open my practice. Rural Pennsylvania. Where the first day of deer season is akin to Christmas. Speaking of akin--that’s it ; everyone here is a kin to someone else. Maybe it was the fresh air. Maybe I stayed for the bucolic setting. More likely it was the cheap office space. That was twenty-two years ago, and I’m still standing. But not without having a few adjustments of my own.

Yep. I started out with the grandest of plans. I was going to liberate these good citizens from pain. Become the backbone of the community, so to speak. I hung out my shingle HENDERSON CHIROPRACTIC. The local newspaper did a nice story about me. I took out an ads in the local paper and phone books. But I got no one. I went to small business marketing seminars, and followed their ideas. I wrote a local newspaper column. I gave lectures to the local Lions, Rotary, PTA’s. I sponsored Pop Warner football teams, and still I got nothing. Since I had a lot of time on my hands, instead of patients, I joined the local, volunteer fire company. These folks were hardworking, nice people. They were always polite, but for some odd reason I was just never “one of them.” The had their own ways of doing things, and their own language.

For instance, when someone is boring, he is called a pud. Lowlifes are called jukies. It took forever to catch on to their idioms and idiopathic expressions. Little did I know that the successful fate of my practice was going to be determined by those weird words. Every Monday night was a training session. After the training session the guys would throw the bull. Usually, their wives brought over some type of food. Hot dogs with sauerkraut was a favorite.

It was on a hot dog night Harold Shlecker asked “Exactly what kind of voodoo doctor are you?”. The room got quiet. Not because they were embarrassed, but because they all wanted to know about the voodoo. I was a little nervous, but started to explain about spinal manipulations and other aspects of my craft. At the end of my little speech ,Harold lifts his beer gut off his chair and declares “Henderson, you’re a nice enough guy, but I ain’t going to have anything of that spinal stuff. Sounds like you could make it worse than it is or break it. Nope, I’ll stick with my doc.” I could see that everyone else was thinking the same way. In their eyes, I was a quack, a witchdoctor. I suddenly realized that unless their was a miracle, I would never be a success around here.

About the time that I was thinking of calling it quits, and going to work for someone else, the township had a huge barn fire. It took six fire companies to get it under control. Fortunately, the animals were saved, and there weren’t any human fatalities. Only, one injury. Harold Schlecker, missed a wrung on a ladder, and injured his back. Harold was placed on disability. He ran the usual gamut of tests, xrays, and pain medications. He still attended the Monday meetings. Primarily, so that everyone could take pity on him. Each time I would offer my services, but he wasn’t budging. Finally, one night, I told him if he came to see me I would treat him for free.

That seemed to hit a chord. “Free, huh. Well, disability’s about to run out. I’ll talk to the wife, and see what she says.”. Progress, maybe. Three days later Harold did enter my office. “Voodoo, can’t make this pain any worse. Do what you do, but it’s free, right?” Of course. Harold didn’t give an inch on his disposition. Each appointment, I would ask if he was feeling better. Each appointment I was told to do what I do. In the mean time, I wasn’t going to the Monday training meetings. Instead, I was meeting my future wife for dinners.

One particular night, we stopped into one of the town’s three restaurants, and there’s Harold with his wife and another couple. Imagine my surprise when he yells “Hey, Doc come over here.” Doc? Come over. Harold must have had a few too many beers. But I walked over to the table. Before, I could say anything Harold leaps out of his chair and puts his arm around my shoulders “Guy, Cherie, Ethel, this is the Ganoch doctor I’ve been telling you about.”

Ganoch? I had to ask. “Harold, what is a Ganoch doctor?” He laughed, “It’s what you do. I was telling Guy that he should go to you. His shoulder hurts, and I said that you did some yookzing around back there and now I’m fine.” Now I knew what I did before, but Mr. Guy said that he would try me, the Ganoch (with a long O) doctor.

That’s what did it. Years of dedicating my life to chiropractic study, and I am now known for yookzing what ails you. The area around my office has developed. Next door is an exterminating company. The whole complex is called the Holland Valley Center, but the correct way to say it is The Ganoch and Cock-a-Roach. Words to make a livin’ by.





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