Fritz and I Go Way Back

And now he has a book of wonderful stories

I first met Fred Vohr during our clinical years at Albany Medical College. He was a senior, and I a junior. We crossed paths in the early morning in the student lounge. “Hi, I’m Fritz.”

Dr. Fritz Stories

The link to Dr. Fritz Stories is

https://a.co/d/27iDpsl

Fred, that’s what I called him then, though he preferred Fritz, was always pleasant and outgoing. Light hair that drifted down along his forehead, rimmed glasses, protruding chin, welcoming smile, clean cut, relaxed, practical (I learned later), professional-looking, and sporting a pipe. “A meerschaum,” he said. New to me. How neat.

Fred introduced me to the pipe.

“I like a pipe. You should try it.” I thought it a good idea, so off I went to buy one, though not yet a meerschaum. I set up at my desk; first one pipe, then a second, a pipe stand, tobacco pouch, cleaning brushes, a tobacco tamping tool, and the pipe-scooper-reamer-cleaner. Good to go.

The pipe’s embers flowed to my papers and burned tiny holes on the pages; the same with my shirt; tiny holes. I soon mastered the ember part, but there was something I couldn’t master. The combustible fire in my mouth.

I wasn’t sure why: smoking too fast, puffing too deeply, lousy tamping, bad filter. Wait, maybe it was tobacco.

“Fred, does your mouth burn when you smoke that pipe?”

“No.”

“Well, mine does. Why?”

“It has to be bad tobacco. Ya gotta get Barking Dog. Barking Dog never bites.” And off to the tobacconist I went.

Awful. The Dog was worse than anything, maybe even Hades. Back to the tobacconist. “What’s in the tobacco? It’s awful, burns like hell.”

“Oh, Ha, of course. It’s leftover Chesterfield cigarette tobacco.” Done with the pipe I was. “Ha-ha, Ya gotta get used to it,” my mentor quipped.

After Fred graduated, he went for further training at Rhode Island Hospital. How coincidental. I went there as an intern the following year, and on my first day of ward rounds, I encountered Fred who was now my resident, my teaching resident. What did he teach me?

At first, I was frustrated. As we made rounds, I wanted to learn physiology, things like cardiac output, renal function, and liver metabolism, but that was not Fred, His was practical. “See the patient, be efficient, get to the point, diagnose, treat, move on.” Early DMAT person?

“But Fred, we’re moving too quickly. I have questions.”

“Of course you do. Later. Take care of the patient, and finish rounds. Before you know it, there will be more admissions, and we need to get to them.” He was casual but directed.

He was right. He taught efficiently and effectively. There was added value. When Fred stopped for that moment between patients or on the rare occasion when we had a coffee, he would tell a story. He was a raconteur. His stories were of the Berkshires in Western Massachusetts where he grew up with both parents physicians. He told us about the practical aspects of taking care of patients in a rural area. And that was when I understood his practicum.

There was no time to dwell. The patients are coming. They need help.

I loved his stories. They were of how he learned along with his parents every day. Easy? No way? Educational? In all ways.

Fred finished his training, went on to do Oncology, and then into practice. And then we reconnected. Fred joined the 455^th General Hospital Reserve Unit in Rhode Island during The Viet Nam War. He encouraged me and our dear friend, Serafino, to do the same.

We bonded further during our two weeks of active duty camp in upstate New York. There we made an exciting vacation plan at his suggestion. “How would you guys like to go bareboat sailing in The British Virgin Islands?” We sat, stared, and wondered if he was kidding. We knew nothing about sailing or crewing. “I can manage it. I can oversee you guys.”

And it happened. Three couples bareboat sailing in the Virgin Islands for two weeks. Bareboat? The company stocked the boat We provided the Captain: Fred.

Though harrowing at times, he got us through an unforgettable adventure and more learning experiences. One evening, he gave us an astronomy lesson. It was the first time I was able to identify several planets, including Betelgeuse, in the clear blue Caribbean sky. And that started my interest in Astronomy.

And there he introduced me to bird watching, “See that. It’s a Blue-footed Booby.” --- A what?

And that started me on my love of bird watching.

On visits to his home, I encountered his affectionate, intelligent, handsome Chesapeake Bay Retriever, a dog unknown to me until Fred.

Our relationship has continued through the years as we cross paths often and eagerly. Now Fred has a book.

Once he told me of his interest in writing some of his life stories, I thought, “Who Better?”

“Fred, you have to do this.” And he did. And the book is a delight.

I read it in a day. It is a book that is Fred . . brief stories, to-the-point and so interesting that you want more, more stories, more detail. Kinda like when I first met Fred and he was ready to move on, quickly, to another patient, another project, interest, adventure.

His life is anything but ordinary; from the small-town medical family in Massachusetts during the Great Depression, to his journey through medical school and decades spent as a physician . . . full of unforgettable moments.

In this collection, Fred reflects on the quirks of small-town life, the characters who shaped him, and the patients who taught him more than textbooks ever could. He takes us along for the ride-whether he's tagging along on house calls as a boy, working as a DMAT physician in disaster zones like New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina, New York after 911, or simply trying to patch up a mast on a classic sailboat.

His neighbors were models for Rockwell. He milked cows. A bee hive collapsed on his bed. It goes on . . .

With humor, wit, and nostalgia, Fred shares the thrills, joys, and heartbreaks of a life spent in service to others.

This isn't just a book about being a doctor- it's a celebration of the people, places, and experiences that make a life. Honest, warm, and full of heart, Fritz’s stories will remind you of the power of kindness, resilience, and connection.

We want more.

“C’mon, c’mon, we gotta move on. More are coming.”

And oh, Fred? He’s now Dr. Fritz.

I call him Fritz. Why? It’s in the book.