Smoke on the Water

 

 

Long ago, when I was a boy, I contracted a flu virus. I do not know if it was the flu in a more formal capacity. During cold season the flu was mixed in and the difference between cold and flu became a blurred line which is very difficult to discern. If you were sick for a considerable length of time, longer than two weeks while three or four days was considered to be a cold. The flu never just goes away it fades and returns, each time less severe than the time before until it finally leaves until the next year

 

Back in them days nobody took the flu seriously. It mainly was an inconvenience that only killed ninety-year-old grandmothers which was considered to be one of those “about time” deaths where some other old couple would be having breakfast and upon reading the obituaries one or the other would exclaim, “EDNA DIED!” whereupon the other would remark, “Well, it’s about time. And life moved on.

 

I was six years old. I was in the first grade, and everyone was coming down with the flu, convalesced for a week or so and went back to whatever they were doing before. All but Edna. She was pushing up home grown tomatoes. And missing school was of no consequence because we didn’t actually learn anything. There was no syllabus. Just open your spelling book (the skinny one) or the tired and worn math book (the fat one) and “read to the class.” We had geography but it was of no importance because we already knew the world was flat because when anyone left Shreveport they never came back.

 

Going to the doctor for the flu was absurd. Maybe if you were Edna, but why? There was no saving her anyway. So for a period of about five days I languished in bed. There was only one black and white TV in the house, and it didn’t work right. It would for a while but suddenly a black streak would appear about six inches from the edge of the screen and dad would have to go over and slap it smartly on top. Now this thing was one of those great big metal plain box Admirals and you could slap it real hard! Not that it helped anything. The streak would eventually go away on its own. The idea that the knobs may adjust the horizontal and cure the streak never occurred to anyone. I didn’t matter because I didn’t know how to turn it on anyway and we only had two channels, 12 and 3. 12 was reasonably clear but 3 was several football fields away and came it “snowy.”

 

By the end of the week I was still sick and Friday night my dad decided to take me somewhere to get “doctored.” Not a regular doctor, mind you, but some old black lady he knew down on Bistineau Biyou. Now this was called Lake Bistineau but there were trees in it so it was a swamp. Years later they filmed the movie “Southern Comfort” there. Watch that movie and you tell me if it’s lake or not!

 

Roads going down there were not straight, but dad wasn’t either. I did tell you it was Friday night, right. Now, I’m not saying dad drank too much, but he didn’t drink too little either. The roads in Louisiana are always wet. I think that there were crews sent to hose them down should they ever become dry and navigable. You couldn’t tell where the edge of the road actually was but they were lined with pine trees. I could see them as I stood in the back seat. Yeah. Stood! Think about that. Take all the time you need. Anyway, after many miles and no few pine trees we arrived at this cabin. For the life of me I cannot remember her name. She had one of them long, ankle-length my Mu Mus and some kind of a scarf or rag on her head. The cabin was “steamy.” You see, they cook, and smoke, and fart and, well, there ain’t no air conditioning.

 

But she was nice. She even fussed at dad for drinking while driving as she poured him a whiskey. But by and by she addressed my complaint. Looked in my eyes. Stuck her finger in my ear. And announced that I had the flu! Alert the media! Now ya’ll bear in mind that I was still sick as hell at the time! That’s why I didn’t mind dad hitting all them trees on the way there. Interesting note; you can hit a pine tree in a 1947 Ford and come away without any damage! Now, where was I. Oh yeah.

 

After the diagnosis she needed to remedy. Going over to a hutch she brought out a King Edward cigar. Now a King Edward has a hole already in the end so she didn’t have to bite it like a real cigar. Didn’t have to season it, or lick it or anything like that. Just fired it up and puffed on it for a bit. Then she laid my head across her lap and took hold of my ear lobe, pulling it down to expose my ear canal. Then, taking a puff on the cigar, holding it, and putting her mouth to my ear she very gently eased the smoke into my ear. She took my finger and had me put it into the ear, telling me to keep it there and sat me up on an adjacent chair. She put the cigar in my mouth and said, “Now draw!”

 

My first puff on a King Edward Cigar was memorable. I had to fake two draws. Then she gave me coffee. My dad paid her, I don’t know how much but I’m sure there wasn’t any deductible. She then prescribed the home treatment. “Keep him pissin’ all de time. Keep him shittin’ all de time.

 

We left for the turmaculus  trip back to Shreveport. I slept through the night and woke up well the next morning. I know you may surmise that I was probably over the flu anyway but you didn’t wake up feeling fantastic. And, you may poke fun at the old Voo Doo woman or even have something to say about her smoking a cigar with a six-year-old. As I aged I developed hemorrhoids and actually wondered if the old woman was still around and moreover, where would she have to blow the smoke to alleviate them. You laugh! The CDC and people like Doctor Fauci have been blowing smoke up your asses for years. You see? The more things change, the more they stay the same!