Fly in the Ointment
originally posted: 11/16/01
Brought to you by my Dad and his friend Scott Clarkson, via Tom Carr. You all know Tom Carr, right? Everybody knows Tom.
My dad was an avid fisherman who enjoyed countless hours of fly-fishing in the trout streams of the Black Hills. So did, and do, his friends. Once upon a time, Scott went out fishing while Dad was stuck in town running his drugstore. (This was back in the days when he and Mom operated a large, traditional drugstore, before they moved to the smaller Medicine Shoppe.) But Scott ran into an unfortunate wind situation while casting his fly and found himself in need of assistance. Naturally he thought of my Dad, pharmacist and all-around dispenser of aid.
So Scott came to the store and walked down the long, long aisle toward the pharmacy at the back. Dad could see him approaching and hear the snickers but couldn't tell what was so funny. Finally Scott stopped in front of the pharmacy, glowering.
"Can you get this out?" he asked, pointing to the spot just above and between his eyes. Dad peered closely at him and finally divined the source of his customers' amusement and his friend's distress: a barbed fly-fishing lure, firmly embedded in the skin.
Dad hid his laughter behind a suitably thoughtful expression until he could speak, then gravely agreed to help. By now a small crowd had gathered to see how the operation would be performed; it was a small town where everybody knew everybody, and suddenly no one had anything better to do. Dad decided that he'd need to push the fishhook the rest of the way through the skin and clip off the barb, then extract the hook. Scott did not appear enthusiastic.
"But first," said Dad, "we need something to numb the skin and reduce the swelling a little bit. Hmm, what have we got?" But he knew exactly what he wanted and made Scott wait while he scanned the shelves. At last he said, "Ah, there it is. Hand me that box, would you? The yellow one." So the nearest customer handed over the goods: a box with "Preparation H" in huge letters across the front. Everyone got a good look as it was passed from hand to hand through the crowd.
Scott sighed and bowed his head and accompanied Dad into the back room of the store (where, legend suggests, an infusion from the infamous Blood Bank eased the sting a bit). He knew the fish tale of his anointing with hemorrhoid cream would be all over town by the time the hook was removed. And it was.
Next week will mark our first Thanksgiving without Dad. While we all miss him a lot, the above is typical of way we remember him: soothing the little ouches of life with a big dose of care and good humor. And we give thanks that he was here long enough to show us how it's done.