"Leaves in My Virginia!"

A Local Doc, over Rocky Lunchtime Bourbon, Speaks of Barter and Hopeful Home Remedies

 

Nostrums? Lordy, I have seen them all.

Alcohol’s the favorite. Many a quack’s

panacea bottled in a cellar and hawked

from door to door is thriving still.

Bindweed’s supposed to heal a bruise.

Cherokee remedies still survive,

and slave recipes—hyssop, juniper, chives.

Waitress, freshen this elixir, if you please.

One day a hefty woman who works a loom

down at Pepperell Mills sauntered in

with no appointment and perched herself prim

as an English queen in the waiting room.

What happened next? For a prolapsed

uterus, folk medicine recommends

inserting an Irish potato. It works,

if you can stand the weight, my friends.

Well, she’d relied on that specific

since winter. We’d hit, you understand, July,

and her complaint, not one bit shy,

was, Leaves in my virginia. Not beatific,

no, but she was composed, no maniac,

and it made some sense. What better place

than a protected pocket, warm and moist?

But the spud had sprouted, sent runners amok.

You never know in these flatland burley

counties if your manual skills will bloom

as sawbones or private gardener. Deftly,

I removed the obstruction and took it home.

I’ve raised a whole colony in my window box,

and bake, fry, or boil, I’m proud as hell

of this year’s crop. The woman paid her bill

with eggs and applejack. Life is a paradox.

Now I’ve got to rush back and tend my flock.

Got appointments at four—a pregnant lady,

a leg to set, twins to inspect for chicken pox,

and Marvin with his routine emergency.

I guess you could say my practice is thriving.

Drop by, and I’ll fry you up some shallot

hash browns in Margie’s seasoned skillet,

a flavor I can promise is sure to revive

any ailing soul. Where do I get my onions?

Don’t ask. The whole sweet world is a garden

R. T. Smith