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by LeAnn R. Ralph You know the symptoms: sneezing, headache, fever, your throat so sore and scratchy it feels as if someone snuck in there during the night and built a small bonfire... When I was a kid, those symptoms meant only one thing: I was too sick to go to school. And what child isn't glad to stay home from school? Unfortunately, I was usually much too miserable to enjoy it. I'd settle myself on the couch in the living room, huddled under blankets and quilts, a veritable winter wonderland outside framed by the picture window, a box of tissues within arm's reach, and a persistent thought nagging at me: "Boy, maybe school isn't so bad after all. If I was well enough to go to school, THEN I wouldn't be feeling this rotten." And at a very young age during such illnesses that came with every winter, I began to notice something about my father. Whenever I was sick, my dad changed from a tough, busy farmer to someone who hovered around the edges of the room with a look of such sympathetic concern on his face that I often wondered if maybe I was dying -- but everyone was afraid to tell me. Not that Dad stopped doing his work. It's just that he seemed to make up excuses to come into the house more often during the day when I was ill. I'd open my eyes, and there'd be Dad. His brow creased with worry lines. His face reddened by the cold. Dressed in his work clothes. Shifting from foot to foot. Looking as if he wanted to say something. "Hi, Dad," I'd croak. "Any better?" he'd ask in a hopeful tone of voice. "No. Not really." "Oh. Well, I have to go into town for..." He"d frown while he thought up an excuse "...Some parts. Yeah, that's it. I have to get some parts." Tractor parts? In the winter? When it was too cold to work without gloves? "Well, just some grease, really," he'd add. And then he'd say the magic words -- "Do you want anything from town?" Ah, there it was... When I was sick, and there was nothing else Dad could do for me, he always made up some excuse to go to town, even if he'd made his routine weekly trip yesterday or the day before. I don't know where he got the idea, but Dad was convinced there was only one medicine in the world that could help me feel better. A medicine that could only be procured and administered by the work-roughened hands of my father...Luden's Cough Drops. "Yeah, Dad," I'd answer. "How about some cough drops?" "Sure," he'd reply, a half-smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "What flavor?" "I don't care," I'd answer. (You'll notice there was no question as to what KIND of cough drops.) A little while later, he'd be back. Usually Dad saved up all his errands so that when he went to town, he'd be gone all afternoon. But when he went to fetch cough drops, he came back in two shakes of a lamb's tail, as Mom said. "Here's your cough drops," he'd say, handing me a paper sack with four boxes of Luden's -- two cherry and two licorice. Of course, there's nothing really medicinal about Luden's (no guaifenesin or dextromethorphan) although they do help soothe a scratchy, sore throat. Actually, it's a wonder I have a tooth left in my mouth, considering all the sugary Luden's I devoured as a kid. But you know, by later in the afternoon or the next morning when I'd started on the second box or the third, I WOULD start to feel better. And on one of his many trips into the house, Dad would ask again "Feeling any better?" "Yeah, Dad, I think I am." "Good," he'd reply. "I'm glad the cough drops helped." Then he'd go back outside, satisfied that I was on the road to recovery. NOW he could concentrate on the farm work. ************* LeAnn R. Ralph is the author of the farm books "Christmas in Dairyland (True Stories from a Wisconsin Farm)" (trade paperback; 2003), "Give Me a Home Where the Dairy Cows Roam" (trade paperback; 2004), and "Preserve Your Family History (A Step-by-Step Guide for Interviewing Family Members and Writing Oral Histories" (e-book; 2004) |
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