M*A*S*H Note
How a meatball surgeon, back from Korea, helped me out of a jam in Waterville.
By Anthony Betts
When I set up practice in Albion in the mid-1950s, every camp was packed and thriving in the summer. Buses, cars - even trains - were disgorging hordes of little people in search of sunshine and freedom, fresh air and companionship. The local general practitioners were stretched to the limit because each camp had to have a doctor on call, and demand exceeded supply. It wasn't long before I was asked to look after two large camps in the Belgrade Lakes region. This commitment meant a daily journey for me of about twenty miles from Albion, and an occasional special trip when there was an emergency, but the retaining fees made it worthwhile.
