Remembering Things

Some strong memories in my life still remain very vivid. They are not necessarily important. Many are just small things, like the old cobalt blue glass jars of Vicks Vapo-rub. It was the smell of the sharp menthol salve my mom Sybil Beck would rub onto my neck or my chest when I had a head or chest cold. The tingling cold sensation as she applied a thin layer and the burst of the intense menthol fumes that would escape my flannel pajama top or the white cotton undershirt. Now the jars are plastic and the ointment's aroma doesn't seem as intense.

Another remedy that my grandmother Rebecca Miner and my mom used was the cure for a sore throat. It wasn’t as elegant as the Vicks, but as a home remedy it sure seemed to work. My gram would stitch a thick slice of fatback bacon to a strip of folded flannel cloth. She would dribble tincture of turpentine onto the piece of fatty pork, then liberally sprinkle a layer of coarse salt onto the concoction. The cure-all would be wrapped around my neck using safety pins to secure the ends and press the healing concoction tightly against my neck. Turpentine fumes rose from the mixture as the heat from my fevered body would arm the mixture. In turn, the mixture would generate a deeply penetrating heat of its own. I won’t say the cure was soothing, but it seemed to do the trick, relieving the pain I felt in my throat after about an hour or so.

There was an older lady from my church as a youth who shared a sure-fire way to “draw out” a splinter or thorn. Soak a piece of white bread in milk, then bind it in place over the injured area. After a few hours, the wooden shard would rise to the surface to be removed without difficulty.

My neighbor used to butcher and process meat, some for farmers and some for his own small market. He sometimes would render the beef tallow and other ingredients into a thick, nearly tar-like paste that could be applied to wounds to act as a drawing salve. When it was smeared over an injury, it would draw the infection or splinter out of the cut and allow the puncture of small laceration to heal without infection. I still have a small amount in my medicine chest.

I can’t forget the donuts my gram made or the sour cream sugar cookies my neighbor Mrs. Carrie hall used to make. A veritable storehouse of foods I recall from my youth, but they will have to wait until the belly of my recollections begins to growl.