Cracker Cures

      I've been fighting a nasty cold, and I started thinking of the different cures my Granny and my Grandmother would use for illnesses. My own mom was a big proponent of Vick's for any sign of a cold, especially if it was turning "chesty." My daddy actually ate Vick's when he had a cold--even though the jar clearly says not for oral consumption. His other cure was more to our liking. He'd take us to the beach so he could clear out his sinuses. Granny, who was a strict teetotaler, believed in the efficacy of a well-made, very strong, hot toddy.  Sugar, water, lemon, and a generous splash of bourbon, heated on the stove, and the fortunate sick family member would sip it from a coffee cup.
     But, the cures and medicines went beyond a hot toddy for a cold. Granny was a firm believer in Black Draught. You did not have to be "bound up," as she called it, to get a dose of the Black Draught. If you weren't happy, you needed some Black Draught. If you looked a little peaky, you needed a dose of Black Draught. If SHE was feeling peaky, YOU needed that Black Draught. I promise you, I learned to smile and act happy, because one dose of Black Draught was enough for a lifetime. And her bottle looked like it was bought back in the 1930s.
     Where Granny trusted Black Draught, my Grandmother Crenshaw was a Lydia Pinkham's Pink Pills supporter. I, fortunately, never took them, but Grandmother would try to get me to take them for all kinds of problems, but especially "Women's Problems."  (Of course, she asked about those in a whisper.)

     Granny had other cures for various aliments. She used Gentian Violet salve for rashes--on humans or animals.One summer I had blisters on my hands, and she went crazy with the Epsom Salts. I had to soak my hands twice a day in a hot Epsom Salt solution. Another summer I was stung by a puss caterpillar, and she had me soak the sting in a solution of aspirin and hot water. That actually helped the pain lessen.
     The most unusual cure I ever saw Granny administer was during the summer of 1969. My cousin woke up one night with a terrible earache. He was crying in pain. There was no way Granny was going to take him to the ER for just an earache. She went into the kitchen, got a little pot, and went back down to the back bedroom. I hear her tell my cousin to get up and go pee in the pot. "Why? Why? Why do I have to pee in the pot?" She just told him to do it, and, as we all did, he obeyed.
     Granny took that pot, put it on the stove, and heated the pee up. She got an eyedropper and took it and the pot back to the bedroom. I could hear her tell my cousin to lie down and put his head in her lap. He was suspicious and asked what she was going to do. "Why, put a dropper of this in your ear. It will stop the pain."  Then the wailing and complaining began, "Granny! Don't put pee-pee in my ear! I don't want no pee-pee in my ear!"  I have to admit, I was was laughing in the other room. She dropped it in his ear; the warm pee soothed the pain; and the night ended quietly. The night also ended with my personal vow never to let her know if I had an earache or anything else wrong with me because the cure had to be worse than the illness. 

An Udder Cowtastrophe!

     And the summer of 1960-something continues. Being at Granny's for the whole summer gave me all kinds of opportunities to do and learn things that I could not in Miami. I had already learned lessons about gathering eggs, turning bulls into steers, riding, and frying chicken. During that long summer, I had more lessons to learn.

  

One of my favorite places to visit at the dairy was the calf barn.My brother and I would beg for a trip to see the calves! The barn manager was a friend of Granddaddy's, so he'd let us come in and walk up and down, looking over that summer's calves. So cute! And so noisy as they all cried for mama! The manager had us hold out our fingers, and, to our surprise, the calves would latch on and suck as hard as they could. This was one time that I didn't mind the slime from their mouths--the babies just seemed to miss their mamas, and I was giving them comfort. Lesson 5--Those calves missed their mamas as much as I missed mine.

     However, my encounters with animals were not limited to farm animals. One afternoon, my friend and I went "walking" up and down the dairy line. On each side of the road, there were drainage ditches. Most summers the ditches were filled with water, but that summer was dry, and so were the ditches. We were just about back to Granny's when we noticed something moving in the weeds in the ditch. There it was--an armadillo! Little grey-armored bundle of cuteness! We looked at each other, and I had the idea to run back to Granny's, get a bucket, and try to catch that armadillo. Imagine my surprise, and terror, when I reached down and scooped up that critter in the bucket. Once I had it, I didn't know what to do with it. My friend quickly abandoned me, running back to her own house. I ran, as fast as I could with my arm out straight out, as far from my body as I could get it, back to Granny's. Once that thing was in the bucket, I noticed that it had large, sharp claws, and I didn't want any part of it. Once again, Uncle Larry came to my rescue. First, he suggested that we could make armadillo roast for supper. Remembering that poor chicken, earlier in the summer, I quickly said no to that idea. I did NOT want a headless armadillo running around in Granny's yard. I ventured that I could keep it as a pet, but I knew Granny wouldn't let that thing live in her utility room. Finally, Larry just did what he was going to do all along--tip over the bucket and let him loose in the cow pasture. Lesson 6--Only adopt pets you're not frightened of.
     The grandchildren would be allowed to go with Granny to the barn to play while she worked. Uncle Larry worked at that same barn. Now, I just had on flip-flops this time because my feet were too large to wear Granny's cast-off work boots any more.  Larry waved me back to the milking parlor. The cowboys let the herd in. Those cows came running in--a stampede--and I tried to flatten myself against the wall and then run toward the door.Because of those flip-flops, I just slipped and slid in the water and cow droppings. To make it worse, I looked up to see the cowboys laughing at me. I finally got out the door and waited while each cow found her place along the feed trough. Larry called me back in and asked if I wanted to see something special--the stars on the cow's teats. I was a little skeptical because I was afraid of slipping and falling, but he held my hand and took me up to a cow with a huge udder. "Go on, Donna Jo, get down real close and you'll see the star." I squatted down by the cow, got as close to that udder as I could and....squirt. I got an eye-full of hot milk. Startled, I slipped and fell right on my behind. "LARRY!!!" I was mad. He apologized, "I didn't meant to pull so hard on the teat. Go on, this time I won't tug at all and you'll see that star." So, once again I squatted, got down really close to that udder. SQUIRT! Another eye-full of hot milk. Lesson 7--Ain't no star on the cow's teat. And that old adage is true: "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me."

Welcome to my Cracker Box

     I am a True Florida Cracker. What does that mean? Cracker is a word that is often used to denote a Florida or Georgia native who is backward, bigoted, and a braggart. I'm actually a double-Cracker; my daddy's family were Georgia Crackers; my momma's family were, and are, Florida Crackers.I will claim some braggarts and plenty of family who are Crackers in the Scottish sense of the word--chatty, gossipy, and jokers.It is a source of pride, in my family, to be able to tell a story well.One gets more respect if that story is funny.
      However,  I also think of my Cracker family in a different sense. Florida Crackers get their name from the long whips that they cracked over cattle as they drove them to market. Various members of my family have worked with cattle or farmed. It was not an easy life, and it formed my Cracker heritage.  My Crackers are resourceful; my momma made dolls from dog weed and "built" herself a play house by scratching one out in the dirt of the front yard. They are resilient. Imagine living in a hot, humid climate with no air conditioning, wearing long skirts and petticoats, They had little money for doctors and relied on home remedies. They fought rattlesnakes, bobcats, insects of all kinds and sizes, and Florida's hurricanes and thunderstorms; and they still thrived. My Crackers had, and have, a strong work ethic; they did whatever was necessary to feed, clothe, and house their families.No legal work was considered to be beneath them. I was taught from childhood that when I worked, I was to give my best--and then a little more. The pay didn't matter; it was the pride in a job well-done. They had faith. Church, prayer, and the Bible were important. Some of my ancestors were illiterate, but they still knew the Lord and Creator of the land they loved so well. I remember Granddaddy falling asleep while reading his Bible. His prayers are part of the Jones's family legend.
     This blog is about those Crackers and my experiences and stories about them. Some of the stories will be my stories; some will be family stories; some may be a bit apocryphal, but that goes with being a true Cracker. I hope that you will get to know the characters in my family: Granny (or Reatha Mae or The Old Critter), Granddaddy, Grandmother (Grammer), Daddy, Mommy, Uncle Son, Aunt Reba (Illa Eugenia), Larry, Doc, and a host of other people who inhabit my Cracker box.