BFtP — Health Care

Today’s, Blast From the Past, brought to you by: The Grownups Wanted Us Dead

Health Care

Melmac Dinnerware: plastic, practically indestructable. A must for every modern home circa 1950's.

I loved meals at the Jay home.They had gourmet food. If I went home for lunch I’d be given a bologna sandwich, a piece of fruit and a glass of milk – boring. At the Jay home lunch was usually peanut butter and jelly in a rolled cold pancake and a pint jar full of Kool-Aid. What more could a kid want?

Lunch was the safest meal to eat in the Jay home. We weren’t required to sit at the table. Sit down meals were dangerous. Mrs. Jay was a wonderful woman, but she still wanted us dead and she always tried to kill us as we left the dining room .

The dining room table at the Jay house was huge. It easily sat the twelve Jay kids, their parents and two or three neighborhood kids. Mr. And Mrs. Jay served the meal together from the head of the table. A prayer preceded the meal, but what proceeded the meal was not holy.

Children were dismissed one at a time from the Jay table. Mr. Jay always started at the top left and called each child away one by one. When dismissed every child, Jay or not, was required to gather plate, utensils and cup and carry them to the kitchen where Loving, the eldest Jay daughter, stood in front of the sink and supervised clean up. We each washed, dried and put away our own eating implements. We tended to dawdle over the washing. The Jay’s probably had the cleanest plates and silverware in town. I can’t tell you how many times I tried to scrub the flowers off the Melmac. Ultimately, with sweet sympathy, Loving would shoo us away from the sink – and into the clutches of Mrs. Jay.

Despite the fancy Melmac dishes, Mrs. Jay was not a modern woman. She lived in a six bedroom, one bathroom house with thirteen other people. The heat came from a wood stove. The air conditioning came from children swinging doors on their way in and out of the house. The washing machine was electric, but it still had a wringer for squeezing water from cloth. The clothes dried on five ten-foot lines out back.

Nothing new-fangled for Mrs. Jay; and that included multivitamins. She had a pill for every letter of the alphabet and then some. Each of those pills had it’s own unique – and disgusting – flavor. No fancy time delay coatings back then. No “easy swallow” coatings, either. We just had to choke them down – all twenty-eight of them – before we were allowed to leave the room.

Mrs. Jay never bought the argument that I wasn’t her kid and she shouldn’t waste the vitamins on me. Perhaps it was because I was at her breakfast table so often that she really couldn’t tell me from her own kids. Or maybe it was because she knew the vitamins weren’t what I was really trying to escape.

The woman was diabolically patient. No matter how long we look to swallow the pills, no matter how many sips of water we took, or how many gagging sounds we made, nobody left the dining room without the entire “health” regimen. One could not even complain of being too full from the pancakes, vitamins and water. She would just motion to a ladder-back chair and suggest rest until the complainant found room within for the last two daily doses of death.

Those last two doses were liquid. Each child would stand quaking in fear as Mrs. Jay measured them out. Well, one of us didn’t. Stinky Jay loved those last two doses. She always begged for more. I frequently suggested that she didn’t need any, but I was only eight. Nobody listened to me.

(You know, in the process of writing this it just came to me that Mrs. Jay measured those doses for each of us using the same cup, and the same spoon. That means, in those times I was at the back of the line, the spoon jammed into my mouth had already been forcibly poked into at least twelve other people. That’s proof she was not doctoring us to keep us healthy! Now I would know how to use that argument to my advantage, but then, when we all drank from the same bottle of pop, went to the restroom together, and took turns chewing the same lump of gum it probably wouldn’t have made much of an impression.)

Have you noticed I am still stalling the taking of those last two doses? Even now, forty some years later, just the thought of them makes me shudder. I remember all too well standing in front of Mrs. Jay trembling as she poured and measured. First she prepared a small plastic cup. The two ounces of liquid within resembled mud. Then she would hold a spoon full of amber liquid up and smiling – smiling! – say, “Open.”

It was a truly weird phenomenon, but as my mouth would open, my eyes would squeeze closed. No matter how I tried, I could not open them both at once. If my eyes were on the spoon, my mouth remained firmly closed. I was not brave enough to look death – or cod liver oil — in the face.

When administering the cod liver oil, Mrs. Jay would jam the spoon to the back of her victim’s throat and pour the vile substance down. She claimed that was to prevent us from tasting it, however since the spoon lodged in said throat always induced gagging, her claim was suspect.

As the final stroke, with her victim gasping and gagging in front of her, Mrs. Jay would press the small vial of brown liquid into the child’s hand and urge, “Drink! Drink!” No matter how often this happened the victim would comply. The urgent need to cleanse the cod liver oil from the palate would lead the him or her to knock back that shot of prune juice anticipating relief. Instead, the torture compounded. The choking, earthy sweetness of the prune juice would mingle with the fishy sliminess of the cod liver oil, causing the victim to bolt for the bathroom and gargle with – whatever. One kid would be taking a swig from a bottle of Listerine; another would be swigging Aqua Velva. Neither astringent cut the cod liver oil very well, but both effectively numbed the taste buds long enough for the mouth to cleanse itself.

And even over the gargling Stinky could be heard from the dining room begging for more.

BFtP — The Teeter-Totter

Today’s, Blast From the Past, brought to you by: The Grownups Wanted Us Dead

The Teeter-Totter

The teeter-totter was originally invented as a torture device. I am certain it dates back to the Spanish Inquisition. Some enterprising parent saw a version of it in some ancient history book and realized it was the perfect murder weapon. I know exactly what he was thinking, “I’ll build it, I’ll put it on playgrounds, the kids will use it to kill each other – and it will look like some terrible accident. Muhahahaha!”

The teeter-totter is comprised of a horizontal, four inch steel pipe held about three feet off the ground by a set of tripod legs (that’s the teeter part). Across the steel pipe, secured to balance in the middle, are more four inch steel pipes – each with handles and seats secured to their opposite ends (that’s the totter part).

Here’s how the teeter-totter works: some (hypathetical) handsome, charming, fifth grade devil-child lures a sweet, angelic, innocent, gullible, smaller third grade child to the teeter-totter and cajoles her into getting on. The devil-child then hops on the other side and immediately – using his superior weight – suspends the small angel child about five feet above the ground.

At this point the devil-child relaxes and waits for reality to confront the girl. It doesn’t take long. Almost immediately the small child realizes she does not have the weight to get herself back on the ground. The next thing she notices is that the wooden seat is leaving splinters where she doesn’t want them. The third thing she realizes is that getting down is going to hurt.

First she considers jumping – it really isn’t all that far – but those splinters hold her securely in place. Next she tries pleading. That only makes her tormentor smile. She tries threatening. That makes her tormentor laugh. Finally she asks, “What do you want to let me down?” Negotiation ensues. In her desperate attempt to reach the ground unscathed the smaller child promises her tormentor every possession she owns – and a few her siblings own (don’t tell her older brother she offered his car to a fifth grader). Her tormentor pretends to consider her offer, but ultimately it matters not.

Finally, after endless torture too tedious to describe in detail, the devil-child makes his move and leaps from his seat. The other end of the teeter-totter, without the counter balance to hold it high, comes crashing to the ground. In the second and a half it takes to plunge to the blacktop the victim has several decisions to make: Which does she prefer broken, her legs, her ankles, or her tailbone? Does she want an excruciating pain in just one part of her body, or would she prefer to diffuse it a bit by spreading the impact across her whole body — from the soles of her feet to the top of her head (this includes biting off the tip of her tongue)? In truth, unless she has made her decision long before the devil-child jumps and has already positioned her body accordingly, her choice will not matter because by the time she makes it she will be prone on the backtop blinking stars – and possibly blood – from her eyes.

Incase you plan on finding a teeter-totter and a bully so you can enjoy this experience first hand, here is some knowledgeable advice. A.) Don’t lock your knees. One — if not both — of your legs will break when you hit the ground. B.) Keep your feet out from under your seat. True, the jolt will not be as hard on your spine if the pipe has to drill through your foot before it hits the pavement, but your foot will hurt so badly your spine won’t really feel like celebrating its salvation. C.) Don’t raise your feet up out of the way and take the whole impact on your spine. If you do you will bite the end off your tongue – and possibly chew up a bit of your stomach as well.

If you must undergo this experience the best way to land is with your muscles loose, your knees slightly bent, and your life insurance paid in full (Note: do not wear slick-soled patent leather shoes). If you are wondering how I can so clearly relay the details of each possible injury, all I can say is: some of us lose our belief in criminal rehabilitation slower than others.

Author’s Disclaimer: I am certain that any similarity between the Winton School child called Bruce the Bully and the Devil-Child in this story are purely coincidental. It was not the author’s intent to shame Bruce the Bully or make him feel guilty for the pain and suffering he inflicted on any small, helpless, trusting innocents who unwittingly crossed his path — again and again and again. Accordingly, any similarity between the sweet, angelic, innocent, gullible, smaller third grade child and the author are wholly a figment of Bruce the Bully’s imagination. Remember, I did not claim to be describing an actual incident, only providing a scenario for how the teeter-totter could hypothetically be used as a torture device.