Gilbert “Red” Malcolm |
Gilbert “Red” Malcolm, Provost
I had been accepted to Yale University with the provision that I would attend a private
school for a year to fill out my years and body; the latter, if I were to play football
and baseball. The sabers were harshly rattling in Korea at that time, and I did not want
to be drafted upon turning 18, following the year in private school. Thus, after graduating
from White Plains High School outside of New York City, I jumped into the front seat
of my father’s ol’ Buick and made the rounds of some of the New England and
Pennsylvania colleges, hoping that I would be accepted on the spot for that September
of 1950. Serendipitously, we docked at Dickinson College on a Saturday morning in August.
The only soul present in “Old West” at that time was Dr. Gilbert “Red” Malcolm
who warmly greeted us in a rumpled white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and an open collar
from which hung a colorful, florid tie. What initially overpowered me, and which would
be an ever-lasting physical impression of him was his bushy, wild red hair, poetic, bulbous
nose, a deep set of jovial, penetrating, warm eyes and a confident, relaxed persona.
This man, I envisioned, at that unforgettable moment, was to become my mentor, inspiration,
and next to my father, a powerful role model. He impressed me so much that I did not
make the return trip home with my father but remained at Dickinson College for football
practice, as I was to be a member of the Dickinson College football squad for the next
four years.
Following a poor academic freshman year, it appeared that I was to be doomed
not to have the grades to eventually gain entrance to a medical school. At the outset
of my arduous sophomore year, my mother suddenly appeared in Dr. Gilbert Malcolm’s office
to find out why her (supposedly intelligent) son was not making the grade at school.
Dr. Malcolm immediately summoned all my teachers, and it was agreed that I was a poor
reader. “Red” called the dean of New York University, and I was enrolled
in that school’s prestigious remedial-reading course that summer in the downtown
campus. Living in the Bohemian sector called Greenwich Village, I gained unforgettable
experiences outside the confines of the classroom, but the essence of that summer was
to be a better and thoughtful reader. I returned to Dickinson for my junior year as a
more serious scholar. “Red” was always loving, supportive and attentive during
my remaining days at Dickinson. He wrote a glowing letter of recommendation for medical
school (I was certain that it may have been for one of the other, more outstanding, pre-med
students), and I was off to a fine future as a physician.
Our relationship did not terminate
when he handed me my graduating diploma.
I stayed at his home in Carlisle each time I crossed the United States for my residency
medical training in San Francisco and back to New York City for the same purpose. My
visits with him were cordial, open and intimate. Our last visit together was marred by
Dr. Malcolm having a blood-tinged productive cough. I took him to Carlisle Hospital for
a chest X-ray, which revealed pulmonary carcinoma. Six months later, “Red” died.
I
have, for all these many years, been extremely fortunate to have had a friend with
such commanding character, warmth, intelligence and loving concern for me. I will always
be eternally grateful that he was proud that I became a physician.
Howard J. Kline,
M.D. ’54
Clinical Professor of Medicine
University of California Medical Center
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