Fletcher's Castoria All Over Again

This is going to be a disgusting post no matter what I do. But it seems like one of those things you'll have dancing around your brain til you get it out and my throat's too sore to talk. If bodily functions make you yak, move on to another post. Scandinavians talk about bodily functions. A lot.

Every damn time I was sick as a kid, my mother threw a gallon of Fletcher's Castoria down my throat. It was a laxative. A gentle one I'm sure if taken as recommended. In the proportions my mother dosed me with, it wasn't gentle. It was also disgusting to the tastebuds, having prunes and castor oil as its main ingredients. I can still see the bottle, the constant sight on the nightstand when I was down ill.

This was also a deterrent from begging off school and the beginning of my wasted delinquent youth as a truant. In every school is a small group of good students who don't attend school, and I found that group in every school I attended. Along the way I met two other kids who'd chosen truancy rather than stay home when sick. And once you play hookey, life opens its doors. Until you're caught, anyway.

Back to the Castoria. As if feeling like crap wasn't enough, now you'd have the runs. Which my mother contended was the only way to get over a cold. Flush out the system. Who knows what arcane medical practices my mother grew up with, probably Victorian.

As nasty as all that was to live through, it most surely worked. Those old ways worked. In high school when friends had mononucleosis, ("glandular fever" elsewhere), they were out for a month or more and sometimes hospitalized. I spent 2 weeks on the couch with a hallucinatory fever and my feet wrapped in icy wet towels and was back at school 3 days after regaining consciousness. So who knows.

Today, still feeling pretty mis, I sent for Metamucil. I expect an uncomfortable night but I'll probably be that much the better tomorrow. Popcorn for dinner, Metamucil dessert. At least it's not Fletcher's Castoria.