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Folks have been searching for the secrets of longevity since time began though we are constantly reminded that "there's no magic bullet."
....© by D. Grant DeMan
Eternal Remedies - The Lava Libation Folks have been searching for the secrets of longevity since time began though we are constantly reminded that "there's no magic bullet."
....© by D. Grant DeMan
The good fun for this writer, however, is not the results, but the search. Each of us has a story; this is mine.
One morning, while quaffing a pungent wake-up libation over the kitchen sink, my new bride accosted me."What in the world!"
Startled, I put the bottle of red-wine vinegar down next to the jar of molasses and honey, the hot pepper powder, the olive oil, garlic, brewer's yeast and bran. "Just ensuring vigor suffice to carry on my life of debauchery." I explained. "This is my Lava libation."
"You really take all that stuff?" Pause here for disgusted facial gesture. "Ewe-e-e-ooo!"
"Yep. Betchyrboots! Keeps the power-house going full blast. Gotta maintain the fire, my True Love. The volcanic kiss of passion and all that goes with it." My lips warmed hers with fervent amore.
Gasping in recovery, Diane retorted. "No wonder our love-making is reminiscent of being submerged in a barrel of pickled chillies."
"You object?" I deftly feigned soulful wounding.
"I love you regardless." Her eyes held that sincerity and admiration, the eternal passion that all real men dream of but seldom receive. "You, my Hunzer, may do as you will for our love transcends those mere unpleasant scents of earthly ingurgitation. But some day you must tell me how you came by such strange potions of choice."
"It's pure science; straight dietetic fact; a proven remedy for long and truly enjoyable life."
"It has to be." The stories of these discoveries must now be told, for others may feel the need to preserve their good sex drives, to say nothing about strong hearts, bravery and determination. The years of gruelling research involved in my elixir must not be lost to the shifting sands of memory-clogging distances. So, here are my steps, all fun, fact and fiction of them, as their golden nuggets dropped into this life.
Back in 1938 I sat on Canrad Hankaw's lap engrossed in his tales of the Cariboo and the Yukon, how miners placered and hydraulicked gold from them thar hills in the crusty old days of sourdough, mules, burros, and grizzlies: "We came by supplies mighty hard. Lumber was scarce and hose-pipe even more so. The pressure from them big pumps forced the grit into the suckup sections so fast that quicker 'an a weasel in a warren it either clogged and burst, or it wore a hole plumb through the webbing. It took quite a spell to figure out a solution to the problem. I reckoned if we could get something soft in there to mix around with the stuff, that would commence to ease things a little, make the operation move more smoothly.
Well in those days shippers packed everything in bran. Yep that old flaky stuff was all over the place up there. So I gathered some, and mixed it in the sand and water. And waddya know? It worked just fine; the hoses lasted more than twiced as long.
"Later I was eating some beans and bacon and I said to myself, 'If this wheat chaff works fine for the hydraulic, it should do good on my own personal plumbing.' I downed a fist-full and been doing so ever since. Reckon I got a few good runs from that idea, 'cause I haven't had the constipation in years!" Wonder of wonders!
Then one fine sunny morning, Petracina, our old housekeeper nudged me at breakfast, "You can slop up your johnnycake with that sorghum syrup if you like, little one, but if I was you I'd be puttin' on a loada sweet honey and pure black strop."
"Yuk. The stuff we get in the spring with sulphur. Gross!" "Don't you be sayin' nothing ag'in' old black brother molasses, you hear. You jus' loves ol' Petracina's molasses cookies, and honey in your sweets, don'tcha? Ol' bro' Bear gits big and strong on what he robs from the bees. If'n we mix 'em up, you'll be powerful like him, but sweet like Petracina, you hear?"
"I guess."
"Well let me tell you, boy, when you lay a little on that cornbread and your pancakes, your disposition will rise and shine. When I came north with my momma and daddy on the underground railroad, mos' days we had nothin' else. An' didn' we brighten up this old country?" You betcha!
The scene shifts south to the little cantina clinging to the mesa just outside Reynosa in 1956. Billi and I had taken quite a whoop-up starting in Brownsville, dancing and searching for the worm. Following siesta we noticed many patrons downing whole chilies, then knocking them back with warm beer. Ugh! Spying one older gentleman who appeared quite civilized in his white cotton suit I inquired, "How in the world can you swallow that? It must be a hundred in the shade and you're devouring all that heat."
"Seņor. Allow me to introduce myself: Jesus Orizaba, Doctor Jesus Pablo Jose Pepe La Mocho Orizaba, at your service."
We introduced ourselves, and he told the tale: "You will notice as you enter our little village, that the white cleanliness of the adobe is pocked with bullet and shell holes, a little blood stain here and there, the signs of mighty valor and glory. This is how we choose to die. Also you have walked by the cemetery where our beloved are interred in their spiritual sleep, resting with the angels, in the comforting arms of Santa Maria Lopez. Indeed, both I and Padre Juan Sabana have attended many sacramental passings of the flesh, and not once, my dear sweet friends, has one gone to Christos from stomach trouble, heart failure or cancer. Seņor Hermosa of ninety-seven years, for example, fell from his cart into the canyon just last month, while his companion, Lupe the prostitute, subsequently withered away from sensual neglect. It was said that she herself refused to service the troops of the ravenous Pancho Villa. Who can say?
"But most die from the bullet or knife. Through our many revolutions; from massacring banditos and even wild Vaqueros loco with tequila, to honorable feuds between families, blood rules our lives here, where it is claimed that a paunch full of chilies with beans and rice makes one more rapid than a speeding bullet. Yes indeed, amigos, we eat chilies and make hot love forever - nearly forever.
That, and the counsel: 'Never bring a knife to a gunfight' will keep you living for a very long time. How else can one explain this phenomenon?
"So have a chili or two in good health, my friends; and remember, as the great Zapata once remarked: 'Never fire your weapon before it has cleared the holster.'"
Wow!
Sometime in the early sixties I looked up from my nap to see portrayed on the television set, a young reporter, microphone in hand, striving to keep up with his elderly subject as they marched between trees in a sun-lit orchard. "Mr. Scraggs, you are now one hundred and nine, you've just finished writing a third book about the hunting of Whitetails, and have begun an illustration for the cover. What, pray tell, is the secret to your longevity?"
Elmer Throckmorton Scraggs pulled the smoking corn-cob from between his teeth, reached for a flask in his vest pocket, and, taking a deep swig, declared: "I reckon it's the oil. I have grown overly fond of this here olive oil through the years."
"You mean olive oil has kept you going all this time. Nothing but oil?"
"Well, I usually have sirloin, eggs and beans for breakfast, soup and cornbread for lunch, fried chicken or ribs for supper and salami pizza for snacks. I don't guess it's all that.
And I have only been walking through this here orchard since I was ninety-eight. Before that I drove the buggy, rode my horse or steered the flivver down to the store for tobacco. Outside of bagging those Whitetails, I don't get much exercise." He paused for another draught of the liquid, smacked his lips and repeated: "I sure do love this stuff. Must be the magic potion of life, the mellifluous elixir."
"And it is the main source of your longevity?"
"Not only mine, Sonny. Looka here, my old daddy's Weltham." He hoisted the silver time-piece from the appropriate pocket. A camera close-up clearly displayed a transparent ochre liquid rolling around the inside of the crystal. "Change the oil every month or so just like clockwork. It's been running now about a two hundred years. And I reckon I will too!"
Fantastic!
The late Charles Kerault of C.B.S. paid a friendly visit one Sunday morning to a pair of sisters, both in their early hundreds, whose active life, cheerfulness and devotion to each other was manifest. The man became totally enamored of them as did the audience, especially as they performed a little bottoms-up exercise while engorging large cloves of garlic from a jar of olive oil. Shortly thereafter Kerault quit his job, had his quadruple by-pass, and commenced a year's tour of his favorite haunts. With immense gratification and cheer in the celebration of his new-found life, he wrote a most magnificent book. His daily repast, you can well be assured, included oodles of raw garlic. Marvellous! But it couldn't cure his lupis.
Though a mere youngster of ninety-two, my cousin Gene, having just completed her research and written a book, visited us with her dapper husband Harold. Both are continually on the go, travelling most of the known world. Following a long drive, she jumped from the car and enthusiastically took us for an exhausting walk on our beach. Our subsequent trip to Seattle was quite tiring for she escorted us on a grand tour of that magnificent city.
"How do you keep so young?" I asked.
"Stay interested in all and everyone around you, pray daily, and begin the day full of love and a good dose of brewer's yeast. That's my recipe!"
Thank you, Cousin. Love you.
During the bleak winter of 1967 two disturbances arrived with the wild west wind to make life discomforting for me. While my classes in the tiny Captain John Meares High School were purring right along, I became mildly alarmed at the howling seances convened in the adjoining townhouse on Cardiac Climb by a newly arrived middle-age couple, Willie and Banaca Marsooshy. It began innocently enough, but the wailing and gnashing became louder with increased attendance. As more and more folks of the "they-should-know-better" classes like the banker, the mill manager, and the police sergeant funnelled in for a chat with the dead, my world began to churn right along with my stomach. That gnawing pain just above the pit grabbed me intermittently, until finally I attended the town clinic.
Dr. Sarah Plebes was an old school buddy: "You've got an ulcer. I know 'cause my husband, Mr. Arrogance Himself, also has the affliction. When he gets out of line I secretly mess up his life and, presto, he's on a stretcher out of town. Take some Maalox, avoid conflict, quit all fine foods, eat nothing but crackers, consomme, and pasta sans sauce for the remainder of your life; and you'll be right as rain."
Needless to say this response fell on wounded ears. Nevertheless, I proceeded to follow Sarah's instructions for the next few days. Sunday afternoon, as usual, the wailing and chanting began piercing the calm of our household, penetrating the drywall from the Marsooshy apartment. It was quite a crowd, I surmised judging from the number of little cars lining the street. The cries, the chants and the howling elevated both in timbre and volume as the evening wore on. My wife and I covered our heads with pillows and prayed for sleep.
"Mr. DeMan." A voice sweetly intoned from the front door the next morning. "Mr. DeMan? Oh there you are!" It was Banaca Marsooshy, a beaming, quite spiritual smile spread across her swarthy face. "I am just bursting to tell you the good news!"
"Well, you have my ear."
"Last night we had a fabulous meeting."
"You don't say."
"We were all aware of your stomach trouble, and we concentrated on finding a cure for you out there in the spirit world."
"How thoughtful."
"A holy soul entered our presence, the ghost of a Doctor Malachi Jorgen, an internal medicine specialist who passed away in 1887 Bavaria."
"No!"
"We communicated your troubles to him, and he said, 'No problem.' Went next door to give you a total spiritual examination."
"And I didn't feel a thing."
"Molasses and vinegar."
"What?"
"That is the remedy; his prescription. You are to take a table spoon of molasses and vinegar mixed in warm water four times a day and then the pain will disappear."
"Really. Well, thank you very much for your help. I'll just do that very thing."
As I closed the door behind Mrs. Marsooshy, I said to my wife, "Is everyone nuts. Honey and vinegar for ulcers! That would eat a hole through my stomach."
My tirade was broken by yet another call to the door: "Hello, Mr. DeMan. It's me back again so soon. Looky here, I brought some vinegar and molasses in water all mixed up. I had a hunch you'd never try it by yourself, so I made you some. Please give it a sip or two. Remember, Dr. Jorgen says it's good for you.."
"I cannot thank you enough." The teeth in the pit of my stomach took another bite, as I urged the door closed, "Good bye, Banaca!" Sitting at the dining area, I stared at the dark acidic liquid for a half hour or so. "This is crazy. Those loonies are a few ghosts short of a haunting." The gnawing continued.
"Perhaps just a little." I was losing the argument with myself. "The pain couldn't get much worse than this."
Retrieving a table spoon, I unscrewed the top from the jar and dipped into the contents, holding it before me like an amulet, then plunged it into my mouth. I swallowed. A few minutes later the pain subsided, and I repeated the dose. The ulcer disappeared. Forever.
Thanks, Dr. Jorgen.
Do submit your bill.
And so, more for fun than profit, my inquiry persists: pestering the wise and happy old folks to surrender their secret source of longevity; for me, a pleasurable advocation. The joy, of course, is in the search. That ancient friend, Death, welcomes all at the end.
So here's to your health old Buffalo-Breath as you down the unguent of life, and widen the hunt, for tomato paste and purple grapes wax large on life's horizon. Soybean meal. Carrot paste and Cranberries...mmm...mmmm. Tumeric and blackberries defeat cancer we have heard, as does broccoli and black raisins.
Happy hunting! But take care where you exhale and exhaust the sweet scents of Promethean's magnificent elixir.
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