Just take another tablespoon every four hours?

Found in our old barn's timbers

We like to think that life was good in the "old days", when our grandparents were young and WW1 was on the horizon.
Telephones that hung on the wall? Water hand pumped in the kitchen? Wood burning stoves?  

Some of those old days were good in the sense that social life was simpler. The old days were more community oriented. 

But medical care? My mom once told me how Dr. Wells performed her appendectomy on the dining room table. House calls were the only time most people saw the doctor. Prescriptions? Home remedies and readily available self-medications for the most part, although the doctor had some legitimate prescriptions at his home.

At the farm, our barn had been built late 1800s, and was leaning by 1970s When the barn was torn down, an untold number of medicinal bottles were found, all of which were long empty and those few still had small amounts of amber liquid, sealed in by caps melded to the glass. (owner of our farm was a doctor and had the liquid analyzed. It was alcohol.)

Order form

$95 · A rare (Heroin) original 1915 government issued "Order Form for Opium, Etc". A similar form from the 1920s was recently shown on the History Channel during a program on illegal drugs.

one dose should be enough

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Found treasure

We look at the contents of these cures for common colds and we are horrified by its contents. "Good old days" take on a new view when we think of people of that era. They must have felt pretty good/well after a few doses

 Doctors had absolutely no control what his patients took for what ailed them.
Did he have any idea about the contents? Did he even know the effects of the miracle tonics, elixirs?

What about the prescription below? Did Dr. George Nichopolous realize the results of the prescribed meds he gave Elvis Presley? I am betting he did.

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Here, in the "good new days", we are aware of contents and need. BUT, there are doctors who are on a paycheck from the rich and famous and who pull out that controlled substance pad.

No surgeries on the dining room table, I am guessing.

Memories will stay.

Never ever forget

If my head were ever hooked up to some machine that could access my strongest memory, the head scientists would be shocked.  “Well, look there, Dr. Fred!  Do you see that?! Who woulda thought?”  I can hear them saying that.

Most people would call up shared memories such as the birth of their children or maybe seeing a  parent after a long time.  No, my memories would be more plebeian and consequently more peculiar.

I would access the memory of an autumn day in my sophomore year at high school.  The bus had dropped me off in front of our farm house, and I walked beneath towering maple trees shedding their leaves.  My hand reached for the door, and I stepped into the warm kitchen, where my mother was washing dishes.  

 On the table, cooling from the oven was the entire head of a full grown hog.

How to make hog head cheese

Eyes, ears, snout, bristled hair, and pink thick skin—all the distinctive features of a hog’s head that I had seen thousands of times, but those hogs had been alive.  Those 

hogs had been rooting in the mud and muck and eating from the feeder. 

Bonding time
You have no idea how awful this smells.

The remains of long dead hog was there and the head had just been roasted in the oven.  The rest of the hog was cut into various roasts and chops, wrapped in white butcher paper resting comfortably in the freezer.

In just a few words, Mom sensed my discomfort.  My mother was the ultimate pragmatist, which served her well throughout her life on the farm. 

She pulled out two very large crocks and set them in front of the cooling head.  “Wanta get a snack before you start taking off the meat and skin?” 

I indicated that I wasn’t hungry.  “Well, change your clothes and wash up.  You’re gonna strip the head of meat and put it in this crock.  Put the skin and what-not in this other crock.  Don’t mix them up.” 

She went on to tell me that this meat was for mincemeat pies, the great nummy pies for which she was so famous.  

What?? 

Mom would take this meat, chop it up, mix it with God-knows-what-else-meat-discards and candied fruit, can it in quart jars, and set them in the pantry.  Then we would feast on mincemeat pie at Christmas time. Here is a recipe, but not my mom's:

You too can make this heavenly pie.

Click on the above to access this recipe.

Well done!

Mom even sent a jar to my 7th grade teacher, who waxed eloquently about this hog-filled pie filling.  

I had never known what we were eating and enjoying.

Sooo, when I set to the task by tearing off the ears and then cutting off the snout and ears, Mom said, “Oh, put those here in this jar.  I will pickle those; your father loves that.”  I just about up-chucked. (apparently the hog's trotters had met the same fate.)

 It didn’t get much better as the process when on.  Poke out the eyes.  Tear off the jowl meat.  Strip the muscles from the back of the neck.  On and on.  I do not recall what she said to do with the brain; I was pretty numb by then.

The science part of my own brain appreciated how God put together muscles and ligaments, attaching them to bones.  The fifteen year old farm girl in me was on the verge of vomiting. 

All in all, it stands out as a strong, indelible memory, now nearly 50 years old. What is yours?

P.S.  I haven't eaten mincemeat pie for years.  But, the store-jar versions are meat free, fully vegan, so maybe now?

This is a repost of a repost, first in 2015 and then in 2017. Some bloggers will probably remember it. But I wanted others to enjoy the experience. Just writing and making some changes brings back all those memories with its smells, textures, and images.

I hope this can change your life. It sure did mine.

In Your Face

YouTube birthday at restaurant

This is my last day at this restaurant. LAST day. This thought ran through her brain as Meg poured a cup of coffee, as she delivered a children's meal, as she beamed at a generous tip left by an older couple. Those were the moments she would miss: the people who smiled at her and she smiled back.

And then there were the moments when she clenched her teeth as a ten year old threw ketchup-covered French fries on the floor and on Meg. The Mom said nothing. 

The final moment came as the last minutes ticked to a close: birthday time.

A few other waitresses brought out the requisite blue-icing covered cupcake with the requisite candle to the French fry table. Okay, let's get this over with. Here, Meg, this is your table.  Meg was handed the cupcake, lit it and they headed to ten-year old French fries table.

They sang the requisite hellish song as Meg glared at the boy. At the last moment, Meg blew out the requisite candle and smashed the blue icing cupcake onto the surprised face. Smeared it real good.

Taking off her apron, Meg sauntered away from the French fry air. The cries of the boy were tip enough from that table.

manners