Aug. 8, 1984. We arrived in the tiny city of Waterville. I say tiny, because this was 40 years before David A. Greene arrived in 2014 with his magic wand to pretty it up and sent the “tiny” village hurtling into the future.

Relax. This column is not a “then” and “now” — it’s about me.

I was in my 50s when we came here, and here I am still learning, still writing about all things like how I went to a doctor.

I was standing in our kitchen watching the birds and rubbing my eyes when my oldest daughter, who was visiting, touched me gently.

“Daddy,” she asked, “are you OK?”

“Think it’s the humidity.”

“Who’s your doctor?”

“Doctor?” I mumbled still rubbing the eye.

“You don’t have a doctor?”

“I played three on television.”

“Daddy, be serious. You’re 62 years old and you’ve never had a doctor?”

“Don’t tell anybody my age,” I whispered.

It’s true. I was at the time, a strapping figure of a semi middle-aged fellow, a retired actor/writer who, at the behest of She, came here to grow old. And now we’re talking about doctors?

She and little she, opened our new Yellow Pages and picked one out.

“He’s on School Street,” Dawn said. “I love that.”

She made the call.

A couple of afternoons later, I found myself pacing the doctor’s office back and forth nervously, running through diseases he or she might say I have like cancer, diabetes or stroke.

I thumbed through the library of doctor’s office magazines — months-old TIME and sports magazines.

A nice little lady named Mary slid open the glass that separated us from the magazines.

“Good morning, Mr. Devine.”

“I can come back later … like December.”

She laughed. It was good to hear somebody laugh. It had been a while since I had gotten a laugh.

She opened the office door and waved me into the doctor’s office.

He was a little fellow, 60 maybe, with a becoming smile. He stood up and offered his hand for a shake.

First thing I noticed was the clutter. He had shelves full of baseball hats from distant places and bowls full of LifeSavers wrapped in plastic.

His office wasn’t what I expected. I expected it to smell of medicine like the last doctor, Dr. Black, I visited years ago on one of those hot L.A. days: two hot dogs, a taco, a large Dr Pepper and a Milky Way bar.

When I recited that menu this doctor called his staff in and had me recite it again and they all laughed.

So there I was, endless years away from the helicopters, cameras, sirens and stress of  L.A., sitting in a quiet doctor’s office with windows that looked out on somewhere called School Street.

No sirens, just birds and kids coming home from school, old ladies walking tiny dogs, lawns full of trees and me eating LifeSavers and chatting with a doctor.

The jitters had faded as I sat facing this gentle little fellow in glasses and a white jacket rocking back and forth in his chair and laughing at this aging stand up comic from another world and his collection of baseball hats.

He’s retiring now. Naw! I have his phone number; he hasn’t seen the last of me.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.