Quote:
Originally Posted by busterb
Female ailments were treated with a product called Lydia E. Pinkham Compound. Lydia's portrait was prominently displayed on each bottle, looking much like Mary Todd Lincoln. Ms. Pinkham apparently was proud of her concoction. Since this medicine was taken only by women, if a young man did anything which was not considered masculine someone would remark, "He must be taking Lydia E. Pinkham's Compound."
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Ever hear
Lily the Pink?
It was on the jukebox in the George and Dragon which was my local village pub when I was 23. Myself and Li'l Matty Tomlinson (which I called him because it was an incorrect version of his name) used to put it on and sing along, much to the disgust of pretty much the rest of the pub. It took us a couple of months to realise we both shared a love of musical theatre - he saw me as a sensible office-type, I knew him as an engineering student. After that we were pretty much unbearable
Note - the poet Roger McGough is one of The Scaffolds. As is Paul McCartney's brother.
Quote:
Originally Posted by busterb
Every household had a jar of Vicks Salve. Children with a cold were swathed iin this salve and tucked into bed wearing flannel pajamas and under many quilts and blankets. The small blue glass jar has become collectible and sells at flea markets. The product is still produced, but only in plastic jars.
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Vicks is alive and well in Britain. AT least in this household. Following a recent cold (a working hazard when 60% of the class have a runny nose) I have a plastic jar by my bed at this moment.
When I was growing up we had a nightlight if we were ill. No, not a friendly Snoopy or Disney character. It was a burner with a tealight underneath it. Something was added to it (Mum can't remember what) and we were
expressly forbidden to touch. Of course. I think it worked on me because I was so terrified of its malevolent presence I forgot to stay awake with whatever I was afflicted with.
Mum also used to screw in a blue lightbulb when we were ill. I shared a room with my sister, and obviously coming in to tend to an ill child in the night would wake up the sibling and mean two children to contend with. She'd read it as a tip in some magazine. As far as I know it worked, but for me (if I was the ill one) it afforded me the great comfort of knowing I was being taken care of, and therefore probaly gave a better night sleep to all concerned.
When Dads was little is was still accepted to rub goose grease on children's chests and send them to school with brown paper stuffed under their shirts. And in Uncle Ted's time (he is over a decade older than Dad) children would still be stitched into their Winter vests (undershirts).
Dad's panacea is
Germolene. It smells exactly how root beer tastes and is a pasty pink colour ointment now dispensed from a plastic tube. It's an antiseptic and local anaesthetic cream which is used to treat all manner of minor ailments. The joke in this family is that if Dad severed his leg he'd just apply Germolene. Whereas Mum would pack the limb in ice and call a taxi so as not to disturb the ambulance crew. He has tried to use it in completely inappropriate settings; when I was fifteen and he gashed his leg so badly it required stitches for example. But as a child I think it served us well. Especially on stinging nettle rash.