Do You Remember?, page 3
On his passage through to his final destination Mr Senna Pods made gigantic efforts to make sure that he moved every obstacle in his way. Our internal organs resisted and the ensuing struggle resulted in a painful, cramping battle, which Mr Senna Pods always won. We might not fall down in the battle, but we certainly doubled over. Having mastered many evictions, Mr Senna Pods proceeded determinedly onwards, carrying his spoils of victory – all day he drove relentlessly towards his triumphant homecoming. When finally he puffed through at journey’s end, the awaiting reception committee on the last platform was the humble po. Mr Senna Pods, brandishing the aromas of conquest, shot out with unrelenting determination. Our test of endurance was over and all stations back along the line were in pristine condition. A final flushing with cups of sparkling spring water was poured down our throats. We would stand to fight another day. No need to call the doctor!
If we heard on the bush telegraph that the doctor was called to a house we considered it a possibility that the next man on call could well be Mike, the local undertaker. You were in dire straits before you called the doctor. Apart from the fact that money was in short supply, the field of preventive medicine and home cures had first to be explored. So to make sure that we seldom saw the doctor, certain steps were taken to keep all systems up and running.
The first of these steps was a huge concentration on the maintenance of a free-flowing system. The word ‘system’ might usually be thought to refer to bureaucracy, the government and how the country was run, but in my mother’s world it was the map of our internal plumbing. She had her own sat-nav to pinpoint the location of our complaints. Her belief was that if our internal road system was running freely the chances were that all else would be well. Certain procedures were ringfenced into our lives for the maintenance of that system. Preventive medicine was the name of her game. Potholes were filled and road blockages cleared before they got a chance to become major problems. She did not believe in backlogs. My mother had never heard of toxin eradication or colon cleansing, but she was a pioneer in the field.
Senna pods were her principal potion, though my father proclaimed that if we drank plenty of water and went out into the fields and ate haws and sloes, they were much better than any pods. We wished on this occasion that she would listen to my father! He practised what he preached and constantly drank copious amounts of spring water from our own well – and lived into his nineties, having had only one stay in hospital to have an eye cataract removed. (While there, he insisted that we bring in his own well water as he did not trust the hospital water.)
Senna pods were only one of the many flushing methods available for the internal organs and with age you graduated into the world of salts. Salts of varied denominations were available and some seemed more likely to kill you than your complaint! First on the hit-list was Andrew’s Liver salts, which was the mildest of all and fizzed up into a frothy bubble that had to be swished back before it stopped fizzing. This washed out your liver. Then came Fynnon’s salts, considered capable of swishing around your bones and giving them a new bill of health. Then there were Globar salts which were also given to the bonhams (piglets), so at least they shared our suffering. Another was known simply as ‘Health Salts’, which was a rather vague, innocuous term to cover everything and mean nothing. But Epsom salts were the mainstay of the salts world and were so effective at cleansing the bowel that you felt the tiny granules must have been laced with dynamite! No matter what your complaint, the cure began with a dose of salts.
But a still more disgusting cure of the time awaited us, and that was castor oil. Before we’d got a shot of this, we thought that there could be nothing worse than taking salts. But there was! Castor oil clung like grease to the inside of your mouth and half-blocked your throat on its way to assail whatever it was supposed to assail. My grandmother was a firm believer in it and stood guard at the bedside to make sure that every last drop was dispatched down the throttle. She herself was an advocate of cascara, another frequently used laxative. Each night, having doffed her multi-coloured layers of underwear, she stood inside her bedroom window examining the night sky and sipped her black cascara as if she was enjoying the best of bourbon! If it tasted half as bad as it smelt, it was not a pleasant late-night beverage, but her commentary on the night sky did not falter one syllable as she downed her nightly quota. My grandmother was not a woman to be buckled by something as ordinary as cascara.
Syrup of Figs was the kind small brother of the laxative world and slipped smoothly down your throat leaving a pleasant herbal taste on your tongue. Oh that his big brothers could be as sweet! And if there was any question of the clarity of the output of your urinary system, pearl barley was simmered by the fire and the resulting beverage was sipped under supervision – in case you shared your dose with a convenient cat or dog.
In her old age my grandmother occasionally summoned the doctor, but it had more to do with using him as a sounding board than wanting him to investigate the state of her health. She invariably questioned his diagnosis, to his immense frustration. But she cured herself. When her back gave trouble she had ‘the red plaster’, which was perforated with holes and lined with a sticky black pad; this clung to her back and was left in place for a long time. If her chest was giving trouble, she had a red flannel that she used as a body warmer to ease her congestion. She was a great believer in Sloan’s Liniment and as she applied it the entire bedroom filled with its strong smell – I found it strangely intoxicating and I think that it might have been possible to have a high on the smell. Goose grease for joint lubrication was another one of her aids to flexibility. The fact that goose grease was massaged into unyielding boot and horse leather to make it more pliable could have something to do with the belief in this cure.
Food, too, was used to cure. My mother sent us out to gather crab apples, which she stewed slowly in a pot over the fire. While the crabs stewed, she bridged the backs of two chairs with the handle of a brush. Then she poured the contents of the pot into a muslin sheet that she gathered into a little bag, tied with a firm knot, and hung off the brush handle. The liquid dripped into an enamel bucket until all that was left was the apple debris, which was fed to the pig; pigs loved it – they enjoyed apples anyway and often broke into the orchard to scoff the windfalls, much to my mother’s annoyance as these could be used to make apple jelly. When the ditches were strewn with blackberry laden briars, full of vitamin C, we were sent out with tin gallons to pick them for jam.
Carrigeen moss, found at the seaside, smelt like cat’s pee. It was simmered for long periods and the offending liquid was then drunk. It had a revolting taste, but if lemons were available a squirt of lemon greatly improved the flavour. But, lemons or not, we had to force it down because it was deemed to have health-giving properties. Later we discovered that carrigeen could be poured into a mould, allowed to set, and with different flavours added could be quite edible. But I could never quite forgot that smell of cat’s pee! And when we went to Ballybunion on our summer holidays we were sent out to gather seaweed off the black rocks, and this was taken home to be eaten over the winter as a tonic. It had a fishy, sea-water taste and got stuck between our teeth. My grandmother assured us that it was full of iodine and very good for us.
The local chemist, who was a man for all ills, sometimes came into our orbit. Bottles of iodine were purchased there and used on cuts and bruises as a protection against infection. It also stung like a wasp and caused the recipient to dance a jig of agony around the kitchen until the raw pain of the application subsided. Peroxide, which was a gentler healer and cleanser, was sometimes applied and when it touched the cut formed a frothy cleansing fizz, and as the fizz ceased the pain eased. Sometimes a poultice of hot bran, white bread or flax seeds was placed on pink lint fabric and applied to a wound to draw out infection. The hotter the better! And the hotter the poultice, the louder the tortured shouts of the recipient.
Once I got ringworm from the calves, which was not an uncommon happening as ringworm was very contagious. The chemist covered it with a smear of a black tar-like substance. For a couple of hours after the application the pain was so bad that I considered it a strong possibility it was going to kill me, whereas I had never heard of anyone dying from ringworm. However, it was the ringworm that died, and I survived.
The main disinfectants used in the house and farm were Jeyes Fluid, sheep dip, Lysol, and Scrubbs Ammonia, and all were instantly identifiable by their different aromas, some of which were simply dreadful. A whiff of undiluted ammonia could almost knock you out. Washing-soda crystals soaked in hot water was an all-round cleanser and disinfectant used for outhouses and sheds. Before use, all of these disinfectants were diluted in buckets of water and swirled around with the aid of a stick to avoid skin contact as they were not kind to hands. Rubber and plastic gloves had yet to come on the market. Dried lime, known as slaked lime, was scattered around farm sheds to keep them bug free and the danger here was of a particle blowing into your eye.
But the great fallback for all occasions was the carbolic soap that came into action in the wash tub, and was used for washing floors and furniture, and indeed for medicinal purposes as well. When other poultices failed, carbolic soap laced with sugar and rolled out flat to apply as a poultice, was sure to do the job. It was also a cure for the bad, oily skin of pimply teenagers, and in this case, too, buttermilk was deemed a good cleanser.
Our old helper, Dan, declared mature buttermilk to be a great cure for a hangover and also a wonderful soother for a bad stomach. He also had great faith in the power of a bowl of black porter into which a red-hot iron poker was plunged, declaring it to be full of vitamins – but it had to be a pure iron poker, not a ‘modern fandangle’, as Dan called it. When he performed this operation, the mulled porter frothed up and filled the kitchen with a heady, brewery-like smell. Sometimes he added a shake of brown sugar to improve the flavour. When my mother was not looking we got a sip, and it was gorgeous. Dan also had great faith in the healing properties of fresh hot cow dung in spring when it was rich in herbs processed in the cow’s stomach. My grandmother agreed with him in this, and when my sister got a dog bite that was difficult to heal, she proved her point by curing the wound with this substance.
Onions were in constant use as deterrents of colds. They were boiled in milk and then the hot milk drunk, mostly at bedtime when it encouraged a restful night. And a piece of heated onion, wrapped in cotton wool and soaked in warm olive oil, was eased into aching ears to heal and soothe the pain. Then, too, we grew many breeds of cabbage, but kale was regarded as the king of the crop for health-giving properties.
Dandelions, which we children called piss-a-beds, were in fact diuretics, so we were not far off the mark. These were mixed through salads and scrambled eggs to improve personal plumbing. We also ate the leaves of the whitethorn and sorrel leaves, which we called ‘sour leaves’, and, of course, the haw and the sloe, which were my father’s mainstay. We sucked the bells of the wild fuchsia, making sure beforehand that a honey bee was not in residence. All these foods were deemed good for our health and cleansing of body or blood – I’m not too sure which!
Honey was regarded as the king of health-giving properties. An uncle of ours kept bees in straw skeps, but when my brother acquired a swarm he invested in a hive, and from then on we had a plentiful supply of honey. First it was comb honey, which took pride of place on the breakfast table, and we scooped the honey off the comb with a spoon. Then he progressed to an extractor and jars of honey joined the comb. The hives increased and our honey production overflowed into local shops and even further afield.
Nettles, of course, were served three times in the year to improve the condition of our blood, and rhubarb, known in Irish as purgóid na manac (‘the purgative of the monks’) did the same for us.
Our first experience of white-coat medicine was the visit of the school dentist, and oh boy did she turn our school into a chamber of horrors! It was the era of ‘out with everything’ with no prior consultation – anything showing signs of trouble was simply whipped out. There was no such thing as fillings. A large, formidable woman, reeking of disinfectant, she arrived wearing a crisp white coat and wielding instruments of torture. Because we had no running water or heating system, she had brought along her own equipment, which included a primus stove and methylated spirits. As she prepared for action, our chalk-smelling room took on the whiff of a torture theatre. But we were too innocent and naïve at first to know what was coming down the track. Unsuspecting, we were lined up like lambs to the slaughter and Mrs Hitler mercilessly dug teeth from the depths of our jaws and cast them into a blood-spattered enamel bucket beside us. The school filled with terrified screams and we were dispatched home with swollen jaws and blood-filled mouths. It was not a pleasant introduction to the world of dentistry!
Compared to Mrs Hitler, Mr Senna Pods had been a walk in the woods. Well, almost!
Chapter 5
The Long Litany
For many years Lord Nelson dominated the main street of our capital city, but one night he made a surprise guest appearance at our family rosary. Though not of our persuasion, we were nevertheless delighted to welcome him – this was long before some of our less tolerant brethren decided to blast him into oblivion!
My mother’s rosary beads were black and battered. They swung off a knob on the shutter of the kitchen window. Black thread, used for emergency repairs, sprouted here and there like black spiders between the decades. These beads were made of cow horn, and from daily use over the years the smaller beads were well rounded, while the large ones, denoting a change of decade, had developed a hollow in the middle, which with time had acquired the appearance of tiny black boats. These beads were the bridge that linked my mother’s everyday world to an unknown spiritual region. From that rich, hidden world she drew strength to cope with her daily routines.
My mother’s God was kind and helpful. She had probably decided that her life was sufficiently challenging without entertaining a harsh creator. Not for her the cold, unyielding God of the time, but rather a kind-hearted, understanding God who listened to her problems. She also considered him to be smart enough to listen to the counsel of his own mother, and my mother was determined to have the ear of his mother. So every night she brought her unruly brood and anyone else who happened to be present to their knees around the kitchen. This was her attempt to introduce peace and quiet and law and order into the normal mayhem that prevailed in her corner of the world. It was her time with her God and she wanted her children to be part of it.
Through a wise and sensitive interpretation of the religious practices of the time she had created her own deep spiritual foundation that enriched the demanding lifestyle of her time. She judged her God to be understanding, and her fellow human beings to be as good as they could be, and if they were ever found wanting she deemed such weaknesses to be outside their remit. My father, while taking a benign view of her angle on God, was in strong disagreement with her view of her fellow human beings: he never expected too much from them and was always prepared for the worst, and he informed us that you could never really know anybody until you had either land or money dealings with them.
While my mother’s rosary beads were the same throughout the years, my father’s were constantly getting lost, or in the wrong pocket, which often reduced him to counting the prayers on his fingers and telling us that ‘fingers were there before beads’. He cracked his knuckles as he counted out the decades. Children did not have rosary beads – they were usually acquired as a gift at Confirmation, so we too used our fingers. One felt that my father endured rather than enjoyed my mother’s rosary. But he knelt obediently like the rest of us while she launched into ‘Oh Lord, thou wilt open my lips’ and we all chimed back ‘And my tongue shall announce Thy praise.’ Then she instructed ‘Incline unto my aid, oh God’ and we extended the instruction ‘Oh Lord make haste to help us.’ After that came the Glory be to the Father, which she followed with the ‘I believe in God’, and we all joined in for the last few lines. Then came the Our Father, three Hail Marys and the Glory. All this before the rosary even began! Then we were finally ready for the decades. We each knew the decade we were to give out and, like well-trained athletes in a relay race, we always picked up at the right place. All this went according to plan with no variation until my mother finished the final Hail Holy Queen – then she could run into trouble as the time came for some creativity and invention.
She usually began one of her long litanies, in which she cajoled an amazing number of heavenly bodies, including the gates of heaven, to come to our aid. One night she got lost in these heavenly regions and could not get her bearings. She continued to circle around these celestial heights with no acceptable signposts in sight and no landing bay coming to her rescue. Eventually, one of my less helpful sisters prompted, ‘Try Nelson’s Pillar.’ This suggestion was met by an unedifying outburst of laughter from around the kitchen. When the hilarity continued without restraint, my father came to my mother’s rescue and quelled the disturbance by his usual method – using his cap as a flying missile at the offender. On that particular night, because law and order had broken down completely, he had to launch several scud missiles before peace was eventually restored.
Then came prayers for needy neighbours and relatives gone on roads less desirably travelled, leading us on to an array of other requests until we eventually finished up in Russia, praying for its conversion. My mother’s prayers were not confined to the welfare of her own state.
Finally my father had enough and when a few restless coughs failed to have the desired result he became more vocal and declared, ‘Missus, we’ll be here until morning.’ My mother’s name was Lena, but when she was driving my father beyond the limits of his endurance she became ‘Missus’. We knew then that the end was in view and that we would soon be up off our knees. She always concluded with the Memorare, then there were always a few moments for silent prayer when each one of us was given time to communicate whatever we wished with whoever we thought might be listening.
