Penicillin and Poultices

They put cold cloths on the head and covered the body in layers of blankets. Soon, there would be a series of poultices, gum camphor, turpentine, and fresh onions, for the base of the neck and even the stomach. Tamarack tea was offered in sips, as was homemade chicken soup. Sponge baths were given daily. A dark room with a cool temperature was deemed critical. No need for a doctor. No money for one, either. In fact, for a person with a severe aversion to doctors, that could make things worse. And, no, this is not a description of my life as a sick child. This is a paraphrased excerpt from my favorite book of all time, the YA classic “Where the Lilies Bloom.” This is how sisters Mary Call and Devola try to nurse their father, Roy Luther, back to health after a stroke. Their attempts do seem to work for a bit, though Roy eventually succumbs to his bad health. Seriously, if you haven’t read this book since the 3rd grade, like me, I urge you to reread. The husband- and-wife co-authors, Vera & Bill Cleaver, do a hauntingly masterful job of showcasing a poor, rural family who make their way in life based on hard work and respect for their mountain land. It holds up well. But, this is more about my mother and how she mothered me when illness struck. Momma and Mary Call were a lot alike. And, my mother’s idea of healing was a complete contradiction to my father’s love of penicillin.

My mother did not have an aversion to doctors, as her father seemed to have. Understandable, as the town doc back in the late 30s was not able to save his infant daughter who died from probable influenza with a side of pneumonia. My late grandfather was larger than life. He was a heavy equipment operating, Ford car building, tank digging, squirrel hunting, fishing, Prince Albert in a can, cigarette rolling son of a gun. W.D. Pickard, or Dub Dee – or even Dub if you were in his inner circle – had a 3rd grade education that he somehow parlayed into a wonderful career at the Ford Plant in Dallas. But, the death of his firstborn, Shirley, at 18 months, was something he never got over. Overprotective doesn’t even skim the surface. He faulted himself for Shirley’s death. See, he added a treatment to the doctor’s protocol they were told to follow. He bathed his feverish daughter one night. She just seemed so hot. He thought he could break her fever and bring her some relief. After she passed, he told my grandmother that it was a combination of that bath and the draft of night air that caused Shirley to die. Obviously, we can see the ridiculousness in this statement. But, when parents are grieving, they really need answers. When they can’t get them, they make them. Trust me on this. Shirley’s passing ushered in a world of fear for my grandfather that trickled down into all our lives, to this day. The night air is the devil. Wet hair is the devil. Drafts are the devil. In fact, anytime one of my children would get the sniffles, I could count on my mother’s response. “Did you take that baby out in the night air, Dina Dale?” No ma’am (wink wink). Of course, I did not. My mother didn’t sit around and wait on the night air to claim my soul as a child. She was locked and loaded, with an herbal arsenal that would shame the aunts in Practical Magic. As my mother’s daughter, I feel compelled to carr y this torch.

Marsha’s answer to everything was warm salt water. Cut your finger? Flush it with warm salt water. Sore throat? Gargle with warm salt water. Acne issues? Tone your face with…you guessed it – warm salt water. Vinegar was a close second favorite. I had extremely long hair for many years. It would get a good washing exactly once a week. Each Saturday morning, a sort of bed was fashioned for me on the kitchen countertop. My mother would gently wash my hair in the kitchen sink. We had very hard water thanks to a 40 ft. well my father dug by hand. So, all hair washing was done with rainwater that was collected in a series of redneck cisterns out behind my father’s workshop. The final rinse was always done with vinegar, for a good shine. Vinegar cleaned windows, cleaned countertops, cleaned toilets, and cleaned floors. Aloe vera plants were everywhere. We used the salve for cuts and rubbed the leaves on mouth ulcers. Potato poultices were used for reducing swelling and “getting the heat out” of the swollen bites from my allergic reaction to mosquitoes. Onions were applied to the bottoms of feet to stop a cough. I was prone to a horrible flu cough in the spring. Shockingly (facetious intent), I have one of those right now. Momma would make me a tent out of blankets over the small kitchen table. There I would sit, with a gallon of boiling water and a heaping spoon of Mentholatum floating in front of me, tasked with breathing in the steam. You might think this was all horrible. I smelled like a jar of menthol pickles with potatoes and onions stuck randomly to my body. But this cough of mine was known to linger for weeks. My mother’s swan song was her ultimate cough remedy. When all the onions and steam didn’t work, she’d resort to the one thing that would, her cough syrup. Brace yourselves. My mother would can cough syrup in the fall for winter use. She would pour Crown Royal whisky over peppermint candy and let it melt. You don’t know the meaning of the word burn until someone pours a whisky tincture down your inflamed throat.

If momma were here today, she’d chastise me for not having my homemade oil of oregano ready to go. She’d be appalled that there’s no Crown Royal in the house. I don’t have an aloe plant anywhere. What I have is an understanding that underneath the penicillin and the poultices and the whisky and the Mentholatum tents, there is love. And, love is the most important cure of all.