Twas the night before Christmas
And I was standing in line
At the security check-in
And I was feeling just fine

I had arrived at the airport
With three hours to spare
Nothing would get in the way
Of my trip home to St. Claire

It would not be like last year
With all that hassle and stress
Then getting sick on the way
What a horrible mess!

Take three hundred strangers
Out of the freezing cold rain
And jam them so tight
Into an overpacked plane

It is a holiday recipe
For colds and for flu
And I used to think
That there was nothing to do

But last year my mom
Shared her secret wealth
Her tried and true methods
For preserving her health

Vick’s Vapors were wafting
From my chest liberally coated
Bringing eucalyptic joy
To the many who noted

That would stave off a cold
Of that there’s no doubt
Which left only the flu
But mom figured that out

A moist mustard plaster
Applied on the back
Would stop those flu bugs
From their annual attack

So I’m standing in line
In my vaporous fog
When a K9 policeman
Walks by with his dog

The pooch starts to whine
Starts to quiver and growl
Its nose sniffing the air
It went on the prowl

I watched with mild interest
As it ran to and fro
Getting ever so closer
Its agitation did grow

Till finally it stopped
And looked up at me
And I swear in its eyes
I saw a dark evil glee

All of the holiday travelers
Who were so close-packed before
Now gave me my very own
Large space on the floor

The officer struggled
To keep that great beast at bay
“Please come with me sir
Please walk this way”

I followed the pair
In a bit of a daze
I couldn’t see any problem
From inside my home-remedy haze

Soon we were joined
By officers two, three, and four
And all of us trooped
Through a white, unmarked door

Inside there stood waiting
And enormous old man
Stretching a new latex glove
Over each meaty hand

“This will just take a moment”
He said from his chair
“Please take off your clothes
And put them over there”

I sputtered and muttered
And began to loudly complain
Until that little Taser
Unleashed its hellish pain

I writhed on the floor
While that dog licked my ear
And I began to know worry
I began to know fear

I meekly stripped down
To my Hanes underwear
And clamped my knees tight
And put my hands…um…down there

At least mom’s advice
About wearing clean shorts
Spared me a shred of pride
And some derisive snorts

My chest was wrapped tightly
In a long piece of gauze
And this seemed to give
The policemen some pause

They poked and they prodded
And they patted me down
The chief talked on the radio
With a puzzling frown

Till the old man in gloves
Told them all to stop
And tore at that gauze
Spinning me round like a top

And what did their wondering eyes behold?
In their cold secret room
But a smearing of Vick’s
On a mustard-plastered buffoon

Then they started to laugh
To chuckle and chortle
And thrust me near naked
Out that white unmarked portal

Twas the morning of Christmas
When we finally touched down
With the sniffles and snuffles
All going around

But not me, my friend
I was fit as a horse
Thanks to Vick’s Vapor Rub
And mustard plaster, of course!

His Majesty Cedric, the Prince of Easthamptonshire, and heir to the throne, was having a fit of pique. His little brother, Netley, the Prince of Southamptonshire, had just killed his first dragon. The entire kingdom was preparing for Netley's Celebration of First Extinguishment. In Cedric's opinion, Netley's dragon was unimpressive, and Netley was receiving far too much attention. Cedric, a strapping lad of eighteen, was not looking forward to the celebration.

His mother, the Queen of Everything, tried all of her usual remedies for petulant Princes.

"You could go for a swim in the moat..."

"No."

"A stimulating game of chess with the Royal Chessman, perhaps?"

"Maybe tomorrow."

"Then why don't you go for a ride on your Kodo, dear?" she suggested.

"So I can see all of Netley's banners?" replied the Prince. "A pox on that."

"Well, how about a nice flight on your fell beast, then? You can fly over Fangorn Forest and visit Treebeard."

"Mother! Leave me alone."

Days went by, but the Prince remained obstinate.

The Queen summoned the Royal Apothecary, and commanded that he produce all of his preparations for persistently petulant princes.

Alas, though many newts gave their eyes, and mice gave their tails, and bats gave their ears, none of the preparations from the pharmacy succeeded in rousing the prince from his crotchetiness.

The King summoned the Chancellor of the Privy Council and asked him to speak with the young prince.

"My lord prince," said the Chancellor in a conspiratorial tone, "shall I summon Princess Scarlett from the Royal House of Johansson? Perhaps she would permit you to visit with her girls."

The prince sighed. "Thank you, Lord Chancellor. Another time, perhaps."

"Well, then," asked the Chancellor, "would you like to go wumpus hunting?"

The prince became irate. "Netley is to be feted as a beheader of dragons, and you would have me slay mere wumpuses?"

The prince's manservant had a suggestion to offer, and he could stay silent no longer. "My lord," he said, "'twas but four years ago you yourself were the center of a similar celebration, only yours was much larger. And remember, you still have kegs of fruit from that affair."

At the mention of fruit, the prince looked up, and for the first time in a week, he smiled. "I do so love fruit! Very well, bring me a keg, knave!" he commanded.

The servant fetched a keg of citrus originally taken from the centerpiece of the prince's banquet. It had been stored in the castle pantry ever since. Soon the prince was happily imbibing the fruits of his labor.

"Where did I slay that beast?" he asked, for his thoughts had become somewhat addled.

"Boonesborough Estates, my lord," said the servant.

"Ah yes," said the prince, "I must confess that these oranges taste far better than I remember. And I feel better than I have in weeks. Summon my scribe!"

The Royal Scribe appeared at the Prince's door.

"Scribe," said the prince, "I ask that you record the circumstances by which we have discovered the curative properties of this beverage."

"Eh?" said the scribe, for he was both long in tooth and short of hearing.

"This new wine!" Said the prince. "From the dragon at the farms of Boonesborough." He giggled. "You look all fuzzy, knave."

"Eh?" said the scribe.

The prince experimented with many more ingredients (all in the name of science, of course) and ultimately granted leave for the product to be sold to commoners. And so, Boone's Farm Fuzzy Navel became the remedy for the ill humor of eighteen-year-olds all across the world.

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours, honey.”

When my granddaughter was little, she would run to me with every scrape and bruise; it had been a long time since she’d needed Grams’ help. The hurt might be different now, but I was certain that I could still take away the sting.

“Jenny – how are ya’ll, sweetie pie. And this here must be Brad,” I said, throwing open the door. I saw the puzzled look on my granddaughter’s face as I let my slight Southern accent deepen and broaden. “I’m happier than a ruttin’ pig to finally get to meet you.”

As I talked, I ushered the couple into the kitchen, keeping up a constant prattle.

“Ya’ll come on back and I’ll get ya’ll a piece of pecan pie. I baked it myself,” I said proudly. “You sit right down here, honey, and let Grams take care of you.” I glanced at Jenny’s face. Her puzzled look was gone, replaced by something that looked suspiciously like anticipation.

They sat down at the table while I dished out the piping hot pie. Steam rose from the plates as I carried them to the table. Suddenly, I tripped over the throw rug. Off balance, the plates teetered for a moment, then came crashing down – directly towards Brad’s lap.

In a desperate move to protect himself and his parts, he jumped up. A loud ringing filled the room as his head connected with my cast iron skillet, which coincidentally happened to be hanging directly above his chair. He sank back down in time to catch the two pieces of hot pie in his lap.

“Oh my!” I exclaimed, rushing over. “You poor thing!”

An unintelligible mumble came from his mouth as I examined the growing lump on his head.

“Now don’t you move, Grams has just the thing for your poor, aching head.” Rushing to the refrigerator, I pulled out a bottle of greenish-brown liquid. “If you drink all of this without taking a breath, that there headache will go away.”

Still dazed, Brad took my offering and started to drink it. I could tell the exact moment when his brain re-engaged; his eyes grew large and he started to lower the bottle.

“Oh, don’t do that, sweetheart,” I said, lifting it back to his mouth. “You won’t get all of the good unless you drink the whole thing.”

“What was that?” Grimacing, he lowered the now-empty bottle.

“That was Gram’s Tonic,” I said proudly. “It’s got everything that’s good for ya - fresh chicken liver, raw egg, pork cracklin’s, blackstrap molasses, horseradish…” Brad’s pale face started to turn green as I continued to rattle off ingredients.

“But you need something for that little ol' lump, too.” Going to the freezer, I pulled out a big, pink, frozen cow tongue.

“Let me just put this right…” Before I had a chance to apply the tongue, Brad was dashing for the sink. As he parted with the contents of his stomach, I heard a suspicious snicker from Jenny’s direction.

“Oh my!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea you had the flu! I’ve got just the thing to get you fit as a fiddle faster than you can say ‘Jack Sprat can eat no fat.’”

Grabbing two tapered candlesticks, I carefully placed one in each of his ears. Then I balanced the frozen tongue on his head. I stepped back to admire my handiwork.

“That should fix you up right as rain,” I declared. “Now, you stay right there while I get something to clean up this mess.”

Neither Jenny nor Brad had moved when I returned with a single piece of paper.

“Brad, dear, forgive an old woman, but I daresay that I totally forgot to give this to you. Jenny e-mailed it to me, and I thought you might want to have it.”

It took a few seconds for Brad to realize that he was looking at a picture of himself – kissing Jenny’s roommate. Fortunately, it didn’t take that long for me to pull my digital camera out of my apron.

Knocking aside the cow tongue and pulling out the candles, Brad tried to make a dignified retreat, pecan pie falling from his pants like brown snow.

Giggling, Jenny threw her arms around my neck.

“Thanks, Grams.”

Somehow, I don’t think Brad will be stopping back around for any more of Grams’ remedies.

If there’s a worse place to get sick than my Oma’s house, then I don’t know where it is. I remember when I was growing up, I always tried very hard to hide if something was wrong with me. There was no telling what my wrinkled German grandmother would pull out of her Shrank. I remember that to my seven-year-old mind, its multitude of drawers smelled like witchcraft.

Oma would bring out whatever herbal remedy or creme she could find. Some of it was conventional medicine. Some of it was stuff she remembered her own grandmother using with varied success.

It didn’t help that my grandmother grew every plant known to man in her tiny 20 feet by 30 feet fenced yard. Sometimes she’d send me out after snippets of this plant or another, fully forgetting that I did not know the names of half the plants out there in English, let alone German. And when I would guess and grab the leaves off whatever looked most interesting and least dangerous, it was always exactly what she wanted. I think that’s the part that worried me the most.

One night during a visit, I was hit with a touch of vertigo, which ended badly. I awoke that morning with a huge black eye, courtesy of gravity and the night stand. Oma took one look at it, and grabbed my upper arm with such ferocity that I was almost afraid she was going to black the other eye so they’d match. She mumbled something about how I should have waken her, and it might be “too late” and a bunch of other things I didn’t understand and wasn’t sure I wanted to. And then she jerked me into the den and went for the Shrank, rummaging and muttering and stirring up aromas that were both enticing and frightening.

“I have just the thing for that eye,” Oma said, when she finally surfaced with a tiny bottle in one hand. She held it out to me triumphantly, announcing its contents with a satisfied smirk. Then she pointed at the couch.

“Lay down.”

I shook my head quite vehemently. Laying down when Oma had some remedy never turned out well. It meant she wanted full, complete access to whatever she was bewitching, and since the only part of me that was currently injured was my left eye, I was not enthused by the idea at all.

She let out a stream of curses in German and then gave me a shove. Startled, I fell back onto the couch, and she immediately grabbed both my arms in a grip that was surprisingly strong. She uncorked the bottle with her teeth, and the room was immediately filled with the potpourri of oil of whatever. It was a sharp, pungent smell. It was a smell that made my eyes burn just by the assault on my nose, and I was terrified of what it would do to my face.

Just as she began to dab at the tender flesh surrounding my eyelid, my mother entered the living room. Started, I jerked my head, and Oma’s oil-soaked cotton ball landed soundly against my pupil. I roared in pain. The burning started in my eye and traveled to the back of my skull. I swear, my body levitated off the couch for a moment as every muscle I had tensed up in reaction to the searing sensation in my eyeball.

Oma didn’t even blink. She wordlessly stood up, shuffled over to the Shrank, and began rummaging in it again.

“What are you doing?” I whimpered.

“Oh, I’m just looking. I think I have just the thing for that...”

It was my sixteenth birthday when I found out about the cure. Not an ordinary bundle of unpronounceable drugs in a convenient capsule complete with hefty list of side effects, all of which include dry-mouth. Not a dash of hard to cultivate herb, nor the shredded bark from a rare tree. No, this cure defied all synthetic drugs and had no use for Mother Nature’s fine, botanical offerings. It was a cure for anything.

Now when I say anything, I don’t mean everything. There’s a fine line between the two. When I say so most people stare at me like I’ve been using a combination of those unpronounceable drugs. I’ll explain.

Everything encompasses an unlimited scenario. It is complete; it is all. Anything is broken down, variable and definitely not all. At least not in the sense of all at once. That’s the best way I can explain.

When it comes to this cure, it cures anything, but not everything. Say I had a cold, some errant form of cancer, and a broken leg. It could cure any one of these things, the target being my choice. But it could not cure them all. Two would have to mend on their own.

So of course I would target the cancer. That stands to reason since it’s the most life threatening.

When I was sixteen I was diagnosed with leukemia, a form of blood cancer. A colossal sneeze from a simple head cold forced me to crash while riding my bike during a downhill race. I broke my left leg as a result of this phlegmy event. They discovered the cancer during the course of my treatment.

A cold, cancer, and a broken leg. Did I mention it was my birthday? I received a bone marrow drill, full spectrum antibiotics, a lovely cast, and the promise of chemo. Talk about being spoiled. The cure was another gift presented when my grandmother visited.

Now my grandmother is old, though no one seems to know exactly how old. Her body, though deceptively frail looking, is as tough as beef jerky. Her youngest feature; her eyes, are as green and clear as a mountain lake.

She explained this cure as I lay in my hospital bed. It dated back to the beginning of our family bloodline, and consisted of four pretty elemental things. Fresh tears collected from a related child no older than five. Something she called colloidal silver; tiny silver particles suspended in water, made from silver worn at some time by a family member. Next was concentrated white energy from precisely twelve relatives, white energy being positive thoughts, or prayers if you wish. Last, was a pinch of powdered fingernails from a relation no less than one hundred years dead. Yuck on that one! I later learned people in my family saved and powdered their fingernail clippings to provide this ingredient for future generations.

Pretty crazy, right? But when one is faced with something as drastic as cancer, one becomes open to almost anything. I believed immediately and agreed to drink the amber coloured concoction while family members concentrated their white energies on me. It was a little like a hospital séance.

And so I was cured. Perhaps you expected some ironic twist, some shocking conclusion. The doctors assumed errors in their diagnosis when my blood-work came back with no evidence of cancer. I still have the cold; it lingers in defiance and wreaks havoc on my sinuses. My leg is healing, although it’ll be some time before I’m downhill racing. And another thing, I’ve started saving my fingernails clippings. Imagine that…

“Are you freakin’ kidding me??” I said aloud as the show faded to commercial. There was no way this was real. There was no way this woman seriously meant what she said. Did I really hear that right? Was she drunk?

I sat in disgusted awe while what I just heard sunk in. Why did I watch these silly daytime talk shows? What kept me around for the segment on home remedies when I couldn’t care less? Why did I have to listen while they talked about things from getting stubborn stains out of clothes to taming a dreaded inconvenience such as acne?

I have dealt with acne since the first signs of puberty. Lovely bumps of red, itchy, inflamed pimples all over my face. Not exactly the thing you are looking forward to once you start to notice boys and boys start to notice you. I have tried all the creams, pills, masks, and medicated pads on the market. To no avail, I am still riddled with the wonderful parting gift of my childhood. I have heard, and been called, all the names in the book regarding this unpleasant ailment and it seems “pizza face” is the best people can come up with.

I had always said that I would do anything to rid my face of the tale-tale sign of bad genes, but this? At this point I was definitely rethinking the idea of doing anything. Naturally my ears perked up when I heard that they were going to enlighten the world on how to tackle the very thing that I had fought against for the better part of 15 years but when that crazy woman let the word urine come out of her mouth, I about fainted. Urine? That was her answer? Not just any urine, but morning urine. The kind that stinks the most and is the strongest, the kind that you save up all night and can’t wait to flush down the toilet. I am supposed to rub that on my face daily and in a short time find myself with the clearest skin since I was a wee lass? How, in the name of all things holy, is that possible? She suggested urinating on a wash cloth and patting it on the infected area. She also suggested leaving it there for about two minutes. Waiting two whole minutes with pee on my face? Dear, God! I don’t even like it on my fingers for two whole seconds!

Another question that came to mind, if I decided to go along with this cockamamie idea, was how in the world was I going to explain my new look? Sure I could just pass it off as a new cream on the market but it won’t end there. There will be more questions to follow including wanting to know the name of this new found wonder cream, how much it costs, or if it burns. I started running scenarios through my head.

“Wow, Steph, your skin looks incredible! What have you been using?”

“Um, well, just this new stuff I, uh, heard about on TV.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Er, just this stuff.”

“Wow! Is it expensive?”

“Umm…no, not really.”

“Awesome! What’s it called?”

This is where I get stuck. What do I say? Do I make up a name like Urinia or Uritopical Ointment? That won’t work. That just sounds ridiculous. Next will be the question of where I bought it. Do I make up a place? Did I get it on the internet? Did I get it at Herman’s House of Happy Pores? Cripes, there is just no good way around it.

Live with zits, or spread urine on my face. Decisions, decisions.

Home remedies, while invaluable, must be selected with care. I learned this lesson the hard way.

My family is filled with self-appointed health care professionals. Dad learned all he knew from his mother and she from her own. A solitary woman, my grandmother, my beloved Baba, the secret salve was her means to show affection.

Like Buckley’s Mixture, Baba’s Secret Salve was foul – but it worked. In fact, her ointment cured both man and beast. Abrasions and bruises left nary a mark. It obliterated infection. As surely as a skunk does spray, her salve emitted an awful stench. That my grandmother smelled of lavender remains a mystery.

Baba’s rough fingertips dug deeply into her tin, yet the supply would never deplete. She’d smooth it over my scraped belly after I climbed trees in a bikini. And when cousin Ben's scrotum became riddled with ant bites, there was sweet relief. Nothing was too delicate for her mighty balm.

Now my father, honoring his genetic calling, came to be known for his own remedies. A cold, wet facecloth wrapped around the neck to ward off a cold. Clove oil for a toothache. By far, his most loved remedy and cure- all, was that of rubbing alcohol. Suffering from weekly (Tuesday nights) “growing pains”, I’d implore him for relief. He’d anoint my calves with this healing tonic and be forever my hero.

In my early teens, I was plagued with pimples. Nothing that a little rubbing alcohol wouldn’t fix so said dad. “Dry it up. Stop the infection.” I applied it faithfully, not suspecting that I’d later need Emu cream to restore the moisture.

Eventually, the apprentice in me wanted to establish her own healing ability. And so I began to diagnose and dispense remedies myself. Sore throat? Half a teaspoon of vitamin C powder, mixed with Echinacea in orange juice. Bloated? Oil of oregano each morning for five days. My rite of passage being when my front bottom became itchy.

Now, home remedies are passed down by word of mouth; I saw no need to read labels. To ensure that a product could be used on mucous membranes was not a consideration. Especially when the irritation became intolerable. Unable to keep my hands away from my privy parts, I remember locking myself in the bathroom.

“Dry it up. Stop the infection.” With Dad’s words echoing in my mind, I seized the bottle of rubbing alcohol and soaked a wad of toilet paper. One dab between my legs and I most surely seared my innards.

That I crumpled to the floor, writhing like a wounded animal, was no understatement. But my screams were silent, as though swallowed by the shag carpet. Absolute quiet was imperative; my ego couldn’t face the chastisement. I had broken Baba’s golden rule: Be aware, select with care.

When misery subsided, I recalled her second rule: Try another remedy. With certainty, I knew Baba’s salve would soothe the beast in me.

My whole life I have always wanted to be a boy. Granted I am only six and in relative terms that isn’t very old, but I am still an avid believer that there was a mix-up at my birth. I was meant to be delivered a boy but the stork obviously got it wrong. I have never forgiven the stork for that.

I have always despised pink, I have never liked wearing a skirt/dress, I am a great supporter of Hibernian Football Club and I feel that table manners are a complete waste of time (much to the distaste of my mother, who loves pink, hates football and prides herself on never resting her elbows on the table). Despite this it was my mother who made me a real boy for a day. Now I know you must all be thinking that this was an elaborate practical joke and that it is impossible to change the gender of a person without spending a ridiculous amount of money on an operation. You’re wrong.

My mother claimed that a secret remedy had been passed down through the generations of our family that, if consumed, would alter the appearance of said person until they were no longer recognisable. As you can imagine I was quite sceptical at the time, but a burning desire to shed my girlish exterior made me believe her. So, one Tuesday morning we set about concocting the ‘potion’.

As we began to mix it in the sink the whole process seemed hideously inaccurate, a dash of this, a pinch of that (this and that being milk and sugar respectively) and a bucket of mysterious green powder. At the time I was told it was fairy dust but I have since stopped believing in fairies and now have a sneaky suspicion that it may have been the powdered skin of an ogre. It was all very magical at the time.

After adding ingredients such as lime, grated butterfly wings and a cube of something which smelled distinctly of tuna (it may have been actual tuna) it was time for it to be left in the fridge so that the magical qualities could be released. Time trudged on but, after what seemed like an eternity, it was finally ready to drink. As my mother carefully poured the lime green liquid into a goblet (a glass with Aladdin printed on it) the supernatural green colour almost seeped through the glass.

I took my first sip and there was an immediate effect to my appearance (although I must admit it tasted an awful lot like a lime flavoured milkshake with bits of tuna floating in it), my hair was no longer long and flowing but short and sticky like it hadn’t been washed in weeks and my finger nails cut themselves and became very dirty. Bruises appeared where there hadn’t been any before and ,what’s more, my shirt was too small for me. I had actually grown! My shoulders were broader and I was at least two inches taller.

Needless to say it turned out to be the best day of my life (so far). I was almost in tears as I was dragged upstairs to bed by my mother, for I knew that once I woke up I would be back to my usual self. It was almost like a dream, living in a alternative reality where I could be what I wanted to be. It took me ages to get to sleep and when I woke up I was distinctly shorter and my hair had grown to it’s normal length again. However, my mother denied everything that had happened the day before, despite me seeing ,out of the corner of my eye, her winking at my dad.

All too confusing for me, I’m only six after all but I’ve started saving for the operational ready.

I was 13 years old when a rush spread all over my body. My parents tryed all sorts of remedies, from medical to naturistic, but all for nothing, my rush was becoming worst, so they took me to the country side for fresh air and clean food.
My grandfather, seeing my poor state tryed a very old remedy that proved efficient: "tuica", an alcoholic liquid made from apples and prunes fermentation, something similar to a STRONG wisky.
At that age, the impact was devastating: i was drunk and with fever, but the next day my state became better, and in a week i was completly cured.
The side effect was that, until this day, i never drinked anything beside beer and wine, my system refuses any strong alcohol (i'm not getting into details).
I'm not a native english speaker so please excuse my mistakes, if i made some.