It was a rare day in Brownstown, Illinois. The year was 1971 or 1972 but I can't be quite sure.
Like many American families, our maternal grandparents did not live in California where we grew up. We did not see them but once every three to four years - if we were lucky. That made them special in a different way from our paternal grandparents. Instead of seeing our out of town grandparents every holiday having warm, personal encounters, we lived on a different kind of love.
My Grandpa and Grandma Lipscomb loved us by mail and sometimes by phone. Grandma collected rare coins and paper money so we got small coins or small coin collections sent. We also got great handwritten letters, the hand getting more and more shaky as you might expect as the years passed.
But the memories that cling are ones related to the rare visits to their hometown.
Brownstown, Illinois.
A small town (now 705 people) east of Vandalia. You see, I never had that small town experience. I grew up in Northern California (San Rafael) busy with cars, people and open spaces limited to the beautiful hills around the valley.
As a child visiting, Brownstown had it all. Houses with big backyards (big for a 6 year old anyway), friendly neighbors, mother nature's blessing, and a wonderful little market down the street where a kid could walk, buy a small bottle of coke and enjoy it all the way home.
Mother Nature's contribution? Well, that came in two forms.
Mother Nature provided those amazing lightning bugs who always seemed to be flying in an effort to escape their hot rear ends. Walking out into the backyard at night the first time to see all those magic bobbing lights was a vision. One that will not leave my memory. On my last days here that will likely be on the playlist of final thoughts.
Mother nature also provided bees. Beautiful to watch on TV, they way they talk to each other through dance and the brilliant way they make honey. Not so great to have buzzing by your head or leaving their stinger somewhere unpleasant.
Here's where the memory starts to fuse. Also having good and bad aspects? Chewing tobacco.
Our grandpa, Claude (Whitey) Lipscomb, had a thing for alcohol and chewing tobacco. Of course, the only one I knew of was the tobacco. For some reason, back then it was OK (or so it seemed) for Grandpa to keep a Folger's coffee can nearby anytime the need to spit arrived. This included a very inopportune time known as the family dinner.
All of us around the table, talking about our day, forks at the ready. And now interrupted by a loud clearing of the throat and nasal passages. Followed by a wet, three foot spit to the floor where the coffee can stood with its eyes shut. I never walked around that side of the table to see if he ever missed. So the meals in Brownstown were always colored by the sights and sounds of Grandpa's tobacco.
But, like bees, Grandpa's tobacco also had a positive side. One that I never expected.
One of those great summer days out in the backyard I stepped and found one of mother nature's bees. Looking for pollen to make us some honey, no doubt. As I placed my foot down during my run, she looked up and in a last desperate act thrust her rear up and gently left a stinger in my foot.
Her gentle action left me howling, running around in circles as my foot started to swell and get red.
Well, all that running around and screaming aroused my Grandpa who was sitting on the porch enjoying the sun. With all he could muster, he said "Hey pantywaist!". Now before I continue, I think pantywaist (sp?) means sissy. I think he said it in a loving way.
He motioned for me to come to the porch and sit on his lap. I remember limping up the steps where he pulled me up onto his big lap. Getting close to his face I could smell the acidic aroma of the chewing tobacco. Between fits of cries, I explained what had happened.
He then pulled one rough and calloused hand from my shoulder and with his thumb and index finger reached into his mouth. Out he pulled a nasty and wet (but relatively fresh) pile of spent chewing tobacco. Before I knew it, this vile pile of tobacco was resting on my swollen foot, just where the stinger had hit and thankfully fallen out.
You see my running around wasn't all just noise - I had a plan.
Then something amazing happened. The pain went away. I stopped crying and Grandpa winked at me. His magical cure.
I left his lap in wonder and walked in the house.
There's got to be an idea here. Another application perhaps, but an idea all the same.
If not, at least I have that memory . . .
ok
Posted by: sam | April 06, 2009 at 07:17 AM
All that work and all I get is "OK"? C'mon Sam . . . :-)
Posted by: Tim Tyrell-Smith | April 06, 2009 at 07:25 AM