Category Archives: My Enchanted Life

Old-Time Health Remedies from 1892

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Old Medical BookA beat up edition of The Cottage Physician — published in 1892 — has been around my house forever; I’m not sure where it came from but I’ve always been fascinated reading about diseases and cures.

Every so often, I’ll blow the dust off and share some of the remedies here on Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife. I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I do.

This was pre-antibiotics and I’m not sure how anyone survived any diseases at all back then. There’s also a homeopathic section and a botanical section with some interesting and even terrifying ingredients.

It seems like there was an overwhelming rush to flush the contents of the bowels as a method to rid the body of toxins and also as a cure for many diseases.

“…best known methods of treatment in all diseases, accidents and emergencies of the home prepared by the ablest physicians in the leading schools of medicine, allopathy, homeopathy, etc., etc., by Thomas Faulkner, J.H. Carmichael, assisted by other able physicians and surgeons of America and Europe.”

bistort

Bistort

Sweet-Scented-White-Water-Lily-Castalia-odorata

Female Restorative
Strengthening Syrup
Comfrey root, marshmallow root, poplar bark, bistort root, white pond lily, cloves, and ginger, of each one ounce; water two quarts, boil down to three pints — strain–add loaf sugar, one pound, boil ten minutes and skim, then add French brandy, one pint. Dose: three or four tablespoons three or four times a day; in whites, bearings down, general debility, barrenness, etc. Note: My minimal research revealed that “whites” might mean anything from general female weakness to a discharge.

I think this sounds delicious, don’t you? Especially the French brandy. I can certainly agree that a woman might need a few doses every day for a reeeeeeelllly long time.

Gray Hair
The sedentary, the studious, the debilitated, and the sickly are, with very few exceptions, those who are earliest visited with gray hair. Persons whose employment renders much sitting necessary, and little or no exercise possible, are most likely to have gray hairs.
Treatment: Mix thoroughly a small quantity of sub-nitrate of bismuth with vaseline and brush a small quantity of it into the hair daily.

The entire book can be found online at http://openlibrary.org/books/OL23291374M/The_Cottage_physician

Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional. I’m merely sharing anecdotal content from a book I found interesting to read. This post contains general information about medical conditions and treatments. The information is not advice, and should not be treated as such. You must not rely on anything that you read here as an alternative to medical advice from your doctor or other professional healthcare provider.  If you have any specific questions about any medical matter you should consult your doctor or other professional healthcare provider. If you think you may be suffering from any medical condition you should seek immediate medical attention. You should never delay seeking medical advice, disregard medical advice, or discontinue medical treatment because of information on this website.
Credit: This was created using a Contractology template available at http://www.freenetlaw.com.

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Hiking through the Daley Ranch

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Yesterday we went for a three-hour hike in one of my favorite spots: the Daley Ranch in Escondido. While it was overcast and drizzly near the coast, Escondido is inland where it’s usually always warm and sunny. We took the Sage Trail all the way up to Stanley Peak.

This is an especially lovely time of year with the ceanothus in bloom.  Ceanothus blooms are rich in saponins, which produce lather when rubbed with some water; basically ceanothus flowers make soap. It really works! Try it for yourself! Pick a handful of flowers, add a little water, and rub your hands together.

Ramona Lilac Ceanothus

Ramona lilac ceanothus Lilac ceanothus

As you can see off in the distance, it was a very hazy day near the coast.

Stanley peak

White Lilac Ceanothus

white lilac ceanothus

The Ranch House

Daley Ranch House

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I Fell Down and a Baby Popped Out.

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In that order, but it took a whole day to achieve my life’s greatest accomplishment.

In 1981, March 23 fell on a Monday.

The day before…
 I took my dogs, Beowulf and Sabrina, out for an early morning walk.

My mom was going to come over around noon and take me shopping — see, that’s where I get it from!

It was a full week past my due date and those pesky Braxton Hicks contractions were terrifying me on a daily basis. My mom was the head RN of Women’s Surgical at a local hospital. She thought a bit of retail therapy (see what I mean?) would take my mind off of that discomfort.

At that time, my son’s dad and I lived in an older part of San Diego; Hillcrest. The sidewalks were deteriorated with huge cracks and fissures.

With my big belly full of Angel Boy blocking my view, I tripped and fell — not hard — but with sixty extra pounds on my normally one hundred pound frame, I was more than a little ungainly.

I remember being super embarrassed for anyone to watch my feeble attempts to get up. Luckily, no one was out that early. I leaned on Beowulf (one-hundred-pounds of Akita/Husky/Wolf) who stood about thirty inches at his shoulders, and he was a sturdy support to help me up.

I continued walking home — just a few blocks — and didn’t think much about my fall, but I did tell my mom when she picked me up to go to the mall.

She knew everything there was to know about birthin’ babies.

She reminded me that she had told me a zillion times not to go walking alone this late in pregnancy, but I replied like I always did, “Blah, blah, blah…I’m not listening to a word you say.”

We stopped at a lingerie shop and she bought me a beautiful rosebud sprigged shortie nightgown.

As we were leaving the store, I whispered to her, “Mom, I think I wet my pants.”

(Dumb me, who had read every single book ever written about pregnancy and childbirth, didn’t comprehend what had happened.)

My mom instantly went into what we always called her “nursey” mode.

Quizzing me non-stop about any other symptoms in a very calm voice, we cut short our shopping day (darn) and drove home.

I don’t want to be too gross here; let’s just say other things were leaking out of me, too…

Suddenly, those Braxton Hicks contractions became the real thing.

I called my doctor. It was time.

All during my pregnancy, I had planned to deliver at home, au natural, with my mom as midwife.

Toward the end, it became obvious that my Angel Boy was too big for that to be possible.

I hate hospitals.

I didn’t want that atmosphere to be the first memories implanted in my baby’s precious brain. With reluctance, I agreed that his health was more important than my hippie chick desires, and hubs, mom, and I all went to the hospital.

The doc examined me, concluded that the fall had merely torn the amniotic sac and the potential for introducing bacteria was a concern, so I agreed to let him completely puncture it to speed up the process.

And oh yes, speed it up it did. The mild contractions intensified.

Other than the unrelenting pain, which didn’t respond to that stupid Lamaze class training, I remember my son’s dad watching “Patton” on the wall TV in the birthing room.

I will always hate him for that.

After being in labor all night, my mom and the doc had a consultation.

Apparently, my baby had a head the size of Plymouth Rock and it was stuck.

It just wouldn’t come out.

I was so upset I couldn’t stop crying.

I had failed my first test as a mom.

So…at 9:42 a.m. on Monday, March 23, 1981, I had an emergency Caesarean Section.

I was wide awake and watched it all.

In the end, I guess it didn’t really matter how my Angel Boy got here.

He was beautiful and healthy; 8 1/2 pounds and 21 inches. He scored a 9 on the Apgar Scale; a high achiever from the beginning!

Happy 33rd birthday, Professor Angel Boy!

happyballoons

babyJ
sailorsuitJbatJteddybearJ

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The Boy Who Is My Heart. So Much Depends On A Yellow Steamroller

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An homage to William Carlos Williams
The Yellow Steamroller

So much depends
upon

a yellow
steamroller

buried
in the dirt 
behind the shed
On a bitterly cold afternoon, I embarked on an annual yard cleanup project. I raked all the pine needles shaken loose during the fury of Alaska-borne winds that roared down the coast to Southern California while he trimmed the eucalyptus and mulberry trees.
Metal rake clanged against metal.
I saw bright yellow igniting the dirt and pine needles suffused it with a gleaming radiance through the brown. steamroller1
I threw down the rake, crouched on all fours, and with bare fingers dug through the wet fecund soil to uncover an abandoned yellow Matchbox toy from the spot where there once was a sandbox that my son’s dad  built for him when we first moved to this house in 1985.
I discover in situ a three-inch wide artifact imbued with all the wonder of my perfect child.
I gently brushed away twenty-five years of encrusted soil and sand.steamroller2
sandboxI was engulfed in a wave of memory.
I was there. I saw him–my four-year-old angel boy in this beautiful huge sandbox filled with fresh, clean sand.
 I saw him as I often watched him from the bay window in the kitchen overlooking the backyard where I would wash dishes and keep an eye on him, keeping him safe–always keeping him safe–as he played in the sand with his dump trucks and cherry pickers and this steam roller and his buckets and plastic cups and forks and sticks with his cats and dog always near, and the loveliness of the memory set me on my heels and I cried.
Happy tears for the exquisite soft rosy glow of healthy well-fed cheeks, the deep Imperial jade green eyes, the curls that were my curls, my boy, my angel love.
The boy whose every breath contains a whisper of the intangible all encompassing LOVE I possess for this being who was a part of me before he was a part of the earth and sun and sky and sand.
The boy who is my heart.
I shut my eyes tight to keep the pictures from disappearing, but the ephemeral/evanescent impressions floated away with the tears that spilled out for the remembering of the beauty of a luminous child playing in a sandbox, singing to himself and constructing sand sculptures of the future, or, in his case, building words and spinning thoughts and erratica.
Those grains of sand that between his fingers mashed and smashed into forts and tunnels were the detritus of the granite from whence his brain reformed them grain by grain into skyscrapers of words and sentences that flow like a path from the back door to the sandbox.looking down from the hill
The Red Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.

UK SPK™

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Since my son met and married a girl from London, his language has become peppered with UK SPK™, which I define as words and phrases he’s appropriated from his wife, her family, and friends. Because I like to be as trendy and hip as he is, if only to annoy him, I have incorporated quite a few into my daily life.

The first day he said jumper instead of sweater, I had to remind him that he holds an American passport and he was born and raised on the beach in SoCal.  And the day he told me he’d ring me on his mobile I was gobsmacked (amazed). My DIL says things all the time that I need her to translate for me. When we go shopping, she’ll look at an outfit or whatever, and say it’s naff which means tacky and def something I shouldn’t be caught dead in. Mutton dressed like lamb is a veiled way to communicate to me that the hoochie momma spandex-covered-in-rhinestones dress I picked out for myself is too young looking for my advanced years. I always say totes adorbs because Stacy from What Not To Wear says it, but it was born in the UK.  Of course, that’s totally adorable, right? Everyone knows they say boot and mean trunk, and flatmate is roommate, but did you know that knackered means tired? Pissed isn’t angry, it’s drinking too much alcohol, and to whinge is to whine. The one that really confused me for the longest time was biscuit, which to me is flour and shortening, baked in the oven and slathered in butter, but to Brits it’s a cookie, of all things! Oh, and DIL says, “I reckon” a lot, which I thought was funny ‘cos it’s kind of a Southern thang, but apparently it’s a well-used phrase they’ve appropriated from us and are now giving back!

The day my child picks up a British accent, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Prob wave an American flag back and forth in front of him until he once again sounds like the California boy he is!

Here’s a few more I hear on a regular basis:

bin=trash can

ginger= red hair

gobsmacked= amazed, gob is mouth

sorted=figured out

splash out=spend a lot

suss it out= figure it out

I know there are many more -isms, but I’m saving some for Part 2 one day. Unless everyone stops speaking to me.

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Happiness is a Fruit + Veggie Bread Recipe: Zucchini, Carrot, and Apple

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This recipe is my own adaptation of a zucchini bread; it’s not too sweet and gets better the day after– if you can wait! Sometimes I drizzle over the top a simple glaze of powdered sugar mixed with orange juice and a little orange zest. It sort of enhances all the flavors.

3-in-1 Fruit and Veggie Bread

Grate enough zucchini to end up with about 1 cup or so packed
1 carrot, grated
1 apple, grated
Zest of one orange
1 teaspoon vanilla plus 1 tablespoon juice from orange
2 cups flour (I use all or part whole wheat)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon allspice
½ cup granulated sugar
½ cup brown sugar
2 large eggs
1/4  plus 1 tablespoon cup plain nonfat yogurt or nonfat sour cream
1/3 cup vegetable oil
You can always add dried fruit or blueberries or nuts. My recipes usually reflect what I have around the pantry.
Directions: Mix together all the dry ingredients, add everything else, mix until well incorporated. Fold into loaf pan. Bake in preheated 375 degree oven for about 45 minutes, check often so it doesn’t become too brown.

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Goodbye Sweet Victor, Part Two

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The story of Victor did not end on July 15, 2006. We planned a memorial service for a couple of months later, the next time my son and DIL were in town.

I tasked everyone with remembering a favorite anecdote or fond memory and we’d light candles and give him a proper farewell. DIL is very crafty in addition to being a super-brain and she created a wind chime with driftwood and seashells and his tags and other jangly metal thingys.

We gathered by Vic’s favorite spot in the yard with his deflated soccer ball and his ever-present bucket. Boy oh boy, did he love to throw that bucket around!

Victor loved to play with buckets. This pic was taken the morning before he died.

My son read Last Words to a Dumb Friend by Thomas Hardy. There wasn’t a dry eye around this yard, I can tell you.

Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall –
Foot suspended in its fall –
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.

Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.

From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons’ mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.

Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should–by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance –
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man’s will,
Of the Imperturbable.

As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.

Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.

I talked about how he easily accepted the cats we brought home; smart as a Border Collie is, he quickly learned how to befriend them–the cats were a little slower to warm up to him but soon everyone was on board. Whenever they would “play attack” his tail or swipe at him with a paw, he would look down at them with such a bewildered look in his eyes, as if to say, “Hey guys, I’m not allowed to hit back, no fair!”

Of course, the cats knew they could get away with anything, even sleeping in the middle of his bed. He would patiently lie (lay?) down next to them on the cold tile floor until I came in and shooed them away. Vic loved to eat just about anything; grapes, carrots, watermelon–it was fun to test his palate. The one thing he could not abide was thunder or fireworks. The poor dear would tremble and hide under the computer desk and no amount of reassurance could erase the sheer terror in his eyes.

You can teach a BC pretty much anything.  I taught him some herding commands just for fun, no sheep around here, but it’s a great way to exercise their brains and they love to work.

We used to play hide and seek. My son would hide and we’d say to Victor, “Where’s J? Go find J!” and he’d take off running up and down the stairs, and he’d almost always be able to find him, no matter where he was.

Oh, I tell you, a dog like that is priceless.

DIL’s memories were the most recent. She didn’t start out loving dogs as our family most certainly does, but I  believe she worked hard to overcome whatever obstacles she had in her heart. I mean, who could not love an animal whose only joy in life was to be so happy to see you when you came home, wagging a tail like mad, if you had been gone five minutes or five hours or five months? Maybe it was a bit of fear, too, at the time she met Vic, he was quite old, had some dental and skin issues–he was a senior citizen after all– but I wasn’t going to allow her to miss out on the joy of a pet! We cooked up a deal, a negotiation. She’s a great one for deals, I’ve found out. A master (mistress?) of negotiation, she outlined the arrangement: IF she fed Victor from her mouth, (I know it’s gross but I used to do it all the time) then her reward would be a facial at the spa. Darned if she didn’t put a piece of bread in her mouth, get down on all fours, and let him ever-so-gently take the bread from her mouth. Immediately after that, she screamed bloody murder which scared the hell out of Victor and he ran off, but she had held up her part of the bargain, so yes, DIL got her facial.

    Goodbye, sweet Victor. You were so loved.

    Spirit Squirrel™ is back

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    Spirit Squirrel™ is my name for the squirrel I first saw at dawn the morning after our beloved Victor passed away at the emergency animal hospital.

    (First of all, I’ve lived in SoCal since 1969. I don’t recall it has ever been this hot. We live about three miles from the beach and a quarter mile from a lagoon and it has got to be at least 110 degrees in the sun. And so dry, such a dry heat, and all morning I’ve heard sirens, which is never a good thing when it’s this hot and dry.)

    There’s nothing as awesome as a boy and his dog

    It was on a day like this that our beloved Border Collie died.

    My son was ten-years-old when we got this little black and white fluffy fur ball. He chose the name, having recently read “to the victor belong the spoils” and thought that would be a good name for his new puppy.

    In 2006, Victor was sixteen-years-old and had been in failing health for about two or three years. Every time he had a setback, we tried to prepare ourselves for the end–I’d call my son wherever he was in the world and give him an update and the opportunity to say goodbye, if only by telephone, because Victor was his dog, his buddy, and even hearing my son’s voice would elicit a wag, a thump of his beautiful feathery tail. (another reason amongst fourteen billion why it is such an act of animal cruelty to butcher (bob) tails or clip (butcher) ears.)

    This time I was awakened at 2:00 a.m. by a repetitive knocking sound near the back door. That’s where old Vic slept, just inside the patio doors on a dog bed that was soft and supportive enough to cushion his old arthritic joints. The poor dear was almost deaf and had growing cataracts but he still loved to play soccer and throw his bucket around. He was eating and eliminating OK, but every extra day with him was cherished. I was afraid to go out in the family room, afraid of what I might see; I had a kind of premonition. I will never forget what I found. Poor, poor Vic was fully involved in a Gran Mal epileptic seizure. The knocking was his back legs hitting the glass door as he was seizing.  I rushed to him, pulling his bed away from the door so he couldn’t injure himself and gently moved his tongue so he wouldn’t choke. I tried to be calm but my heart was breaking.  I called the 24 hour hospital to let them know we were on our way. We took turns staying by his side while we got ready.  By the time we got dressed, the seizing had ended, but he was unresponsive and probably comatose; barely breathing, his chest rose and fell, not agitated and not in any apparent pain. He weighed sixty-five pounds, kind of big for a BC even though he had a pedigree.  He looked just like he was peacefully asleep.

    Apparently, his organs were shutting down; the vet said it could have been triggered by the heat or cancer or old age, but we all agreed that it would be cruel to subject him to any diagnostic or invasive procedures. For whatever reason, it was his time to go and our job to make it as pain-free as possible.

    We covered him with kisses and tears as the vet performed euthanasia, and we were there for his final inhale and his final exhale. The compassionate vet left us alone as we sobbed and stroked him. I think he might have teared up a bit as he watched us say goodbye. Although we knew this day would come, we were not prepared for the depth of our despair.

    Victor would never again wake up. We were never again to be greeted by his jumping on the bed, his cold nose prodding us awake. We were never again going to watch him get chased around the house by our cat, Bandit, in one of their games that he always lovingly let her win. Never again was I going to have to spell the word”walk” so he wouldn’t know we were going to go out without him.  I would never again gaze into his massive brown eyes and feel so much love. There will be other dogs in our life, but there will never be another Victor. We still love you, buddy.

    Young Victor, Bandit as a kitten

    I have had other dogs and loved every one of them but Victor and I had a special bond, maybe because when my son left for college and I was an empty nester and newly alone, Victor became that child who would never leave.

    Victor’s favorite toy, the bucket!

    Which brings me to Spirit Squirrel.  By the time we got home, it was almost dawn and I couldn’t go back to sleep. There was such an emptiness in the house- it was palpable. I had made sure that Bandit had said her goodbyes but now she was looking all over the house for her friend, and I tried to explain that Vic wasn’t coming back, but she just ran under the bed for the rest of the day. I honestly think she never recovered from that loss. Neither did I, to be honest.

    I thought perhaps the best thing to do would be to remove all of Vic’s belongings; and I pinky swear this happened: I was standing at the back door and saw a ground squirrel climb up over the side of the deck and take Victor’s rawhide chew bone and run off with it. Right before my eyes! I had never seen a squirrel before so near the house–I knew we had them around but never so bold. One of the perks of a dog is their skill as a deterrent. I named him Spirit Squirrel™ and fantasized that he was really Victor’s spirit brother whose job was to transport the bone to Victor in dog heaven. Since then, and since so far I haven’t brought home another dogchild, other squirrels have taken up residence in our yard, and I know they are unwanted vermin, yet I can’t for the life of me find a good, rational, scientific explanation for the whys and hows of that event on that particular day at that particular time.

    Dragonfly, you are loved…

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    I’m no Russel Ray Photos but I think this is a pretty good picture of a beautiful red dragonfly that touches down for brief moments of pure joy all around my deck.

    Instead of Flowers, How About an Enchanting Seashell Bouquet?

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    Today is super hot and humid but I went to Pilates anyway, and saw a friend of mine who’s a nurse and she always has a handful of non-latex gloves or figs from her tree for me and I trade her tomatoes and cucumbers and clary sage seedlings, so it’s a win-win for both of us.

    I’m really excited about all my clary sage seedlings; I have about 100 of ’em that look very healthy but will have to wait for the weather to cool down to put them in the ground. Here in So Cal, October is our spring, and that’s the best time I have found to plant natives.

    So I have all these seashells, right?  Prolly thousands of them, collected by me or presented as gifts, and I’m not super creative like everyone on Etsy and Pinterest, but I do like to embellish almost everything with shells and rocks.

    I was looking for a new project and somewhere saw a bouquet of seashells and starfish and thought that it looked easy enough to re-create, so I did!

    How to make the seashell bouquet:
    1. Get craft sticks of all sizes; I even used chopsticks
    2. If you don’t have a glue gun, get one! I can’t live without mine, that’s for sure. For this project, you don’t have to be perfect, obvs you need to use more glue for the heavier starfish
    3. If you want to use florist’s foam,that would be a good idea; I didn’t do that here, but I did fill the vase with paper

    Voila! Here’s the finished product. This vase is at the bottom of our stairs up to the second level and is the first thing you see when you come in the front door.

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