The Last of the Mohicans

I never read this classic novel, set in 1757 during the French and Indian war, set in upstate New York and written by The American Novelist James Fenimore Cooper.   However, now, it seems it may have become a part of me now, and I am curious why.

Recently, a few weeks ago, a friend of mine who was born in Europe and emigrated the legal way to the United States, told me that in fact I am: The Last of the Mohicans

No, I am not a native American. I am not sure if my friend was referring to me as resembling a character in the novel, such as the Mohican warriors Changachgook or Uncas, or whether I resembled the frontiersman who befriended the Indians, Bumppo.

But I think my friend was not being literal about this title, but instead, providing a metaphor about my life, and perhaps a little bit about the little legacy of long-forgotten souvenirs I may have dropped on the blood-spattered pavement of life as I traveled along over the years. These memory souvenirs I dropped along the way may not have been pretty roses to pick up but more likely drops of sweet sweat that sizzled on the scorched pavement of life.

When I heard her tell me this, my jaw dropped for several reasons.  One, how did someone born in Europe know about The Last of the Mohicans, and two, why did I never read the book but my friend did, translated from her language to English?  This friend said it was a very long book but did introduce to a foreigner, the frontier of America, in print — a far-off distant land that she knew very little about, except what she received as brainwashing, behind the Iron Curtain, years ago.

I think what she meant may have been  this:  as I go about my life, especially in my medical work, and other situations,  I am surrounded by people younger than I am, who see me as old school, hardworking, significantly slower on technology, but, perhaps imbued with a wealth of experience that they have never seen, and my way of doing things is based on a melting pot of mixed experience forged by mistakes, hard knocks, old school knowledge and a sticky, stubborn will that doesn’t give up, even if the ship is sinking, knowing that somehow, some way, I will swim away from the hungry sharks. And yes, I am the last of the “old” guard, because my previous colleagues have long ago, decided to hang it up and I respect that choice they made, because they’re clearly not cut out for it anymore.

I still enjoy contributing to the health of others, and I will not back away from a challenge, even though I may not run or walk as fast anymore.  And I have learned to stop telling colleagues, “I remember when we …” because they have no concept of what I am talking about, nor do they want to listen. Frankly, I don’t blame them at all for tuning me out. But then, I’ve got a good smile and still have great teeth, so then, maybe I’m not so bad to look at while they tune me out.

I am not old.  No way.  I keep pushing on, better than before, but with less hair and a quite a few bruises and broken bones from falling off my horse, then getting back in the saddle.

I am going to work out hard now, and now that I mentioned it, I am sure I can do more push-ups and pull-ups than my younger colleagues. I am blessed to be able to do that.

Yes, perhaps in some ways,I am in fact, one of the last of the Mohicans.

© SRCarson Publications, 2026