It’s the flu bug that’s biting this Valentine’s Day
The flu is running rampant in our area and across the state. We receive our shots every year. I am very disappointed that regardless of taking preventative measures to escape the bug, it bit me. It has been a very long time since my last bout with a flu virus. After a rough night, fever, sleeplessness, aches and pains; today, this old girl is exhausted. This writer is never too wasted to connect with you, my readers.
My dad always told us to shake it off when we became ill with a cold or the flu. He would insist on the use of Vicks Vapor Rub and Horehound cough syrup, often Epson salts. I even taste-tested the pint of whiskey (used for medicinal-use only) that was hidden beneath the flour bin in the Hoosier cabinet until my brother caught me in action and turned me into our boss. That was supposed to take care of everything above the belly button. If that failed and only cleared the head and the lungs needed extra help, out came a pint jar of rendered goose fat from the cellar store and a piece of muslin big enough to wrap a mummy. Then our nice nurturing nurse whacked off a piece of a more suitable size of the thin cloth for the job. Mom agreed the treatment was a help. She sure did make a dent in the contents of that little green pint jar. There is nothing like greasy goose fat on a throat rag and feverish racks of ribs.
I hated the chills associated with my illnesses. Our house was cold at night when the embers died in the coal stove. Even Grandma Siner’s downy homemade quilts could not comfort me. One good thing I did not mind a few days of absence from school. If the flu got out of hand, Dr. Timothy Weaver made a house call. He had little packets of pink and purple pills that seemed to work, as a cure-all for most every ill that befell us. I remember when he told mom that I needed to drink the milk from one of our standard nanny goats. I was sort of puny. I wasn’t too keen on that drink, but I managed to slurp and burp and send the strained liquid down the shoot. On good days, I helped my brother Johnny Wayne milk those goats, challenging each other to see how far we could send a stream of the goats’ milk. We aimed the faucets at each other and sometimes the ducks and the geese that share the space. He worked like milking machine and I only gave the chore a short shot. Dr. Weaver had bedside manners that calmed my nerves and mom’s tonic that worked in all seasons cleared the path to wellness for me. Today if someone offered me goat’s milk, I would have to throw it out as soon as they were down the road out of sight. I have enough fat under my skin that I do not need anything to add poundage. Besides, I don’t think anyone in this neighborhood is milking goats.
So, now I must close and lie down. Paul and Tootie Mae have a valentine for me. I don’t think that’s a cure, but it is worthy of a healthy grin!
I can be reached by phone at 317-286-7352 or drop me a line to 649 South Grant Street, Brownsburg, IN 46112.