Journal of a Living Lady #174

 

Nancy White Kelly

 

There's an old country song that says, "Mamas, don't lets your boys to grow up to be cowboys." I could write a wiser one that says, "Wives, don't let your husbands read a book about garlic."

 

When I went over the mountain for my blood transfusion last week, I recommended to Buddy that he take along something to read. From experience, I knew this getting blood is an all-day ordeal. First there is paper-work, matching, cross-matching, and then the transfusion. Afterwards comes a lengthy wait to see if there is a reaction to the newly infused blood.

 

You can imagine my dismay when I noticed the huge reference book Buddy was reading: "Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about Garlic." True, garlic is a wonderful, spicy herb. I love it in spaghetti. Garlic is great with green pepper and onions.  I also know that it is said to have healthful benefits. I have no reason to dispute this.

 

But, you have to know my otherwise wonderful, but naive husband. If I am home, no door-to-door salesman gets near him. I keep a second remote control handy to flip channels anytime an infomercial comes on the television. The last near-useless thing Buddy bought was a food dehydrator we used one time. The prunes became raisins so tough I could only use them for buttons...if  I could punch holes in them.

 

Over the years, Buddy has taken ballroom dancing lessons and a correspondence law course. He isn't lacking initiative for self-improvement. He just goes to extremes.

 

Sure enough, before we were half-way home, Buddy asked if I felt up to him stopping at the supermarket for some garlic. I told him I already had some minced garlic in a jar in the refrigerator. He said the book called for cloves.

 

I didn't feel like stopping, but Buddy had put in a whole day babysitting me. I waited patiently in the car. Out he came with enough garlic bunches for an Italian army.

 

There was reason to this madness. Buddy had a large, ugly rash on his side and back. We didn't  know what it was. In a vain attempt to stop the itching, I applied several drugstore remedies.  After the third day, Buddy saw the doctor who was also stumped. He gave Buddy a prescription for $50 worth of white greasy gold which didn't work well either.

 

Following a typical legal disclaimer, the author of the book urged the reader to cut the garlic cloves into tiny bits. Upon applying it directly to the irritation, the itching should stop. The rash would clear up faster than the speed of a hummingbird's wings.

 

Let me assure you that raw garlic stinks. Therapeutic treatment isn't pretty either. Nothing is appealing about  a grown man standing half naked in the bathroom applying particles of garlic to nearly raw skin.

 

I am an easy-going person, but Buddy just thought he was going to sleep in the same bed with me, slathered with this self-made ointment. We compromised. He put on a tee-shirt to cover the garlic on his torso.

 

Even the oxygen tube in my nose didn't dilute the garlicky fumes Already queasy from the transfusions, the pungent smell put me over the edge. I love that man of mine, but there are limits to my tolerance. In the middle of the night, I left him. I snuck off quietly to another bed.

 

When I awakened, Buddy was working in the garage. He had made my coffee and brought in the newspaper. Our bedroom, the adjacent bathroom, and the kitchen smelled like an enclosed garlic garden. Each time I opened the garbage can during the day, new fumes replaced the slowly fading ones.

 

Finally, in quiet desperation, I located the discarded tee-shirt and all the remaining chopped garlic. Any and everything that hinted of that malodorous herb went  into a black trash bag. With all the strength I could muster, I threw the plastic bag out the back door for whoever wanted it.

 

My newly-acquired blood must have come from an NFL quarterback. The bag sailed like a pigskin headed for the goal line. It landed several yards on the far side of the garage.

 

Before the sun set, the black sack was in the chain-link trash bin. Maybe it walked on its own, but I am suspicious that Buddy was involved.

 

My man has not  mentioned garlic again. His rash eventually cleared up as rashes tend to do. The next time I go for a transfusion, I will give Buddy my own book to read: "Candy, Candles and Roses."

 

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nancyk@alltel.net