We'd heard of the old Country Doc: grey haired, black bag and rumpled suit,
Who poor folk paid best they could, bartering with chickens and fruit;
But Watson Lake had no farms, nor soil, nor any stock to slaughter,
Chickens and such were trucked in, and whiskey flowed like water.
Such was the scene in '77, hair miners and dogs,
When Said Secerbegovic appeared,
Standing on top of his clogs.

With no grey hairs. old black bag, no rumpled suit on his hide,
Sporty and young, lean and keen, with a sexy blonde by his side,
And, next to her, was a bright young girl, clinging to her mother fast,
"Good grief," we cried, and shook our heads, took bets on how long he'd last.
And we went on medicating ourselves, with Seagrams, by the ounce,
While Said opened a clinic with a name we couldn't pronounce.

He did birthing and broken limbs, pneumonia, dementia and piles,
All of this, and more, in a space that encompassed hundreds of miles.
And, one by one, we needed him for this and that, over the years,
He'd cut and patch and soothe and cure our aches and ails, sprains and fears.
From common colds, coughs and cramps, to diseases exotic and rare,
For he not only had stitch-witchery, but diagnostic flare.

And he settled in and the business grew and we were in fine form,
The years went by and life was good .... it was the calm before the storm.
Then... Hurricane Debbie swept across the matrimonial sea.
"I'm a casualty," cried Said. "Call me Sevic," said Anne-Marie.
When asked about her new name she said her life had, indeed, improved,
Sevid was "Secerbegovic" with the "Son-of-a-bitch" removed.

Then he moved himself down the street and procreating was his need,
No Tom, Dick or Harry for him, but Maximillian and Lucas Halib.
The new house needed some work, which created domestic tension,
The place is still unfinished and Hardy Hibbing's due for pension.
Still Si kept his sense of humour, specially when bored with charts and labs
He'd say, "Tests show you're healthy, but look here, this slide is full of crabs."

Now a run-of-the-mill internal, to most women, is no news.
Until, one day, in the middle of one, Said fell off his shoes.
His back went out, his feet went up, he lay immobile on the floor
With his patient lying beside him, in her stirrups, by the door.
So, the patient became the doctor, with Said's full approval,
But only a crash course in "Speculum Removal."

Now, remember Peter Stoffer? He thought a family would be nice,
After witnessing his child's birth, he quickly sought Said's advice
"When can we resume our sex life?" he asked, blushing pale magenta.
"It's customary," replied Said, "to wait for the placenta."

More years went by and Si branched out, beyond the healing and giving
For, though his calling was Medicine, his passion was for Living.

At photography he excels, big real estate deals are no fuss,
Camping and fishing are child's play, a grizzly attack is a rush.
He's a runner, orator and hunter, in case you're taking stock,
A photo-snapping land baron, pharmacist, therapist and doc.

Now, the years have reached twenty-five, as we sit here in our places,
Said's suit has fewer wrinkles than those upon our faces.

Chickens and such were still trucked in for this Anniversary Do,
And most of us are still here, though, God and whiskey have claimed a few.
But, still we think we're quite unique, living without fence or fuss,
And it took a helluva guy to top what we think of us!
So let's drink a toast to that man, and Individual Rare,
I give you Said Secerbegovic, Doctor Extra Ordinaire!

(Sandy Grunow, 16 August 2002)