Excerpt:

A few years later, when I was an intern in Tennessee, my attending physician and mentor, Steven Berk, carried a leather doctor’s bag, one he had toted around since his medical school days. His bag, unlike my uncle’s, was small — the size of a loaf of bread, or perhaps a bit bigger — just enough to carry his ophthalmoscope, blood pressure cuff, reflex hammer and a few other things. It was well worn.

The bag became a fetish for me. It embodied all the qualities I admired about the man: He was a careful listener, and he examined patients thoroughly and well. In the Mountain Home Veterans Hospital in Tennessee, which had a large domiciliary and nursing home population, he made original observations about pneumonia in the elderly and became a pioneer in the field.

When I became Dr. Berk’s chief resident, three years later, I bought a similar bag even though it was prohibitively expensive on a resident’s salary. Mine was stiff, and despite lots of rubbing with neatsfoot oil it remained hard and unyielding.