Dad And The Old WivesTales of Torture
by Wendel Potter
November 13, 2005
Whenever I'm in pain-as I was a couple of nights ago-I think about my father.
While preparing dinner the other evening, I was draining the boiling water from the pot of potatoes and reconfirmed a lesson from Science 101: Steam rises. It will also burn the bejeezus out of you if you're not wearing oven mitts.
Fortunately, I didn't drop the pot and dump the potatoes while calling out the Lord's name. Apparently the Lord was listening. Being Irish, the Lord likes potatoes, too.
But I was steamed. I quickly turned on the kitchen sink faucet and bathed my hand under cold water for several minutes.
Then I thought about Dad.
Had he been there he would have recommended hot water instead of cold and then suggested smearing butter on the injured hand.
In his day butter was good for healing burns. Hell, you buttered burned toast. Why not your hand?
This is how it was:
Dad had an unusual philosophy when it came to dealing with pain. You alleviated it by enduring even more pain.
By the way, notice how "more pain" sounds a lot like "morphine". Perhaps somewhere along the way, there was some confusion on my father's part. His hearing never was all that great.
Though I'm sure Dad developed his rather unorthodox methodology while growing up in a stoic, superstitious family which included its share of crackpots. But he was born in 1913, a time when old wives were telling tales.
All I know is, when I was a child, pain would often beget fear.
First of all, there was the loose baby tooth. Not that a loose tooth in itself caused me pain. It was more annoying than anything and of course, I wanted the tooth out so I could put it under my pillow and await a visit from the Tooth Fairy, who generally paid a bounty handsome enough that I could make a trip to the candy store the next day and buy a lot of junk that would eventually rot my permanent teeth.
Loose baby teeth, however, can be stubborn. This is where Dad stepped in.
First, the summons. "Come here and let me have a look," he'd say from his easy chair.
With the first loose tooth, I obediently presented myself, suspecting nothing as he stuck his probing fingers into my mouth.
"What I need to do," he said, "is put my thumb behind the tooth and snap it forward real fast. The tooth will pop right out. Here! I'll show you."
Jesus! Was this man insane?
From there on, I knew better. With the next loose tooth, I didn't answer the summons. I ran and hid in the attic.
Good ol' Summer Sunburns. That was another area where Dad really excelled when it came to old-fashioned remedies. So old-fashioned, I think they dated back to the Inquisition.
I grew up in the era of Unguentine. It came in a red spray bottle and it cooled the sunburned back and shoulders and temporarily relieved the pain. It was definitely better than butter.
But along came Dad who was a lot like Ford. He had a better idea.
"What you want to do," he'd say, "is get into the shower and turn the water on full blast and as hot as you can stand it (in Dad's case, about 247 degrees) and let that water pelt the sunburn. That'll take the sting right out."
That'll also scald three layers of skin off your body. I'm convinced that my father was born too late. He really would have made an excellent adviser at the Salem Witch Trials.
Then there was the matter of the boil I developed on my wrist when I was twelve years old. In the beginning, it looked much like an insect bite and it itched. But as the days passed, an unsightly bump began to grow.
It also turned purple and looked like a rotten bird's egg. And it hurt.
Obviously it demanded the attention of our physician. But Dad wanted to take a stab at it. Literally.
For a week, Mom had tried sprays and creams, but to no avail. The boil was getting bigger. She feared that I may get blood poisoning and on a Sunday evening, suggested a trip to the doctor for the next day.
I remember Dad was in the vacant lot next door, hitting pop flies to my brother. I watched from our yard and was crying from the pain in my wrist.
Dad looked over and asked what was wrong and I told him the boil really hurt. "Go on in the house. I'll be in there in a minute," he said, "and lance it."
This was a new wrinkle. My father was suddenly a surgeon.
So, to the attic I ran.
Between my mother's intervention and my hysteria, Dad decided not to sharpen his scalpel that night. Mom took me to the doctor the following day and he lanced the boil, using a local anesthetic and a sterile knife. He did offer as much that if we had waited any longer, blood poisoning would surely have set in.
God knows what Dad's remedy was for blood poisoning.
So there I was the other evening, with my steam-burned hand under the water. My fingers were so cold they were turning numb.
Then I heard Dad say, "If you think they're frost-bit, just rub some snow on them."
I turned off the water. My hand felt better.
Then I finished draining the potatoes and dumped them into a bowl. The potatoes were still steaming, so I promptly buttered them.
Copyright 2005 Wendel Potter
Talk to Wendel:
wendelsworld@yahoo.com
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