So, I am on Day 8 of suffering from a sinus infection and have resolved to go to
the doctor in hope of getting some anti-biotics to combat the evil-biotics that
presently hold power in the front of my head. Pondering this decision caused me
to remember how my mother dealt with different cold symptoms for my siblings
and I.
There
was the Vick’s Vapor Rub; every kid’s first experience with menthol back in the
60’s. That stuff was the closest thing to magic with its combination of warmth,
intrusive vapor, and exotic smell.
Then
there was the combination of honey, lemon juice, and whiskey, mixed by the
tablespoon, for coughs. Again, another mysterious combination, this time of
something fabulously sweet, incredibly sour, and absolutely forbidden.
And
for the most part, these worked, at least temporarily but the experience
lingered in pleasant memory as we would lie in bed having been dosed by one or
had the other rubbed shaman style on our chest.
Inherent
in these rituals and connected to their efficaciousness was trust. Momma was
taking care of us.
But
not all of her remedies worked as well as she thought. Somewhere along the way
our mother discovered another concoction for chronic coughing that involved
boiled onions mixed with cane syrup. This mixture was then placed in the
refrigerator where it stiffened into a sticky mass. The application was to take
a spoon and cut a lozenge size dose and then slowly suck on it to relive throat
irritation and thereby end the constant cough.
And
you know what? It worked. In fact it worked so well that after that first and
only time I ever put that ‘medicine’ in my mouth…my mom never heard me cough
again.
So
today when I go to the doctor if he happens to mix me a drink of lemon, honey,
and whiskey, I’ll lift the glass. If he wants to apply some concoction on my
chest, I will happily remove my shirt. But if I catch the aroma of sickeningly
sweet onion…I’m outta there.
