A well-worn path led down the hill to the toilet located far enough to cut the odor and avoid contamination of our well. Mama was vigilant about sanitation and shoveled lime into the pit to aid decomposition and screened the open back to foil her chickens who considered the flies and maggots a tempting buffet. Chickens are not known for their discriminating tastes. Any chicken Mama planned to butcher, was penned up and fed a fine diet of grain and table scraps for several days prior to its date with the axe, till Mama was convinced it, “clean.” I now realize my brother didn’t bother with the long walk to the toilet at night, since a healthy crop of tomatoes had volunteered beneath his bedroom window. Mama noted the size and beauty of the crop, but said we couldn’t eat them. “They might not be clean.” They looked as “clean” as the ones from the garden, so John and I slipped off and enjoyed the finest tomatoes of the season, which had apparently benefitted from the trip through his digestive system. When Mama noticed the stripped plants, she whirled around and quizzed me “What happened to those tomatoes? You didn’t eat them did you?” My guilty look gave me away. “You did, didn’t you? Oh, My Lord, you could get typhoid from those nasty tomatoes.”
My heart fell. I knew this had to be serious since Mama said, “Oh, My, Lord!” I had no idea what typhoid was, but I did understand I was about to die.
“John ate most of them. I only ate a couple of little ones but nothing was wrong with them. They tasted real good.”
“Being raised in filth wouldn’t make them taste bad. They could still make you sick.” She went on about her business as I prepared to die.
I worked up my nerve. “Mama, will typhoid kill you?”
“It could, but maybe you won’t get it. I had typhoid when you were a baby and nearly died.” I already had a keen conscience and knew I deserved punishment as I waited anxiously all afternoon for typhoid to strike me down. I attributed everything to typhoid: a ringing in my ears, a rapid heartbeat, feeling hot and thirsty as I played listlessly in the shade that July afternoon. My last day dragged. Mama didn’t say any more about typhoid, but I knew it was only a matter of time. I dreaded going to bed that night since I wouldn’t be waking up tomorrow, but certainly couldn’t confide in Mama, since I’d brought all this on myself. During bedtime prayers, I got cold shivers reciting the line, “and if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Knowing tonight would be the night put a whole new light on the situation, especially since I’d disobeyed Mama. It hurt my feelings a little when she tucked me in as matter-of-factly as usual on my last night on earth. I fought sleep, but couldn’t hold it off forever. I bounded out of bed, thrilled to find myself alive and ravenous when I awoke and smelled dry-salt meat frying, biscuits baking, and coffee percolating before daylight the next morning. Typhoid would have to wait for another day!
Funny how we believe anything when we are young. I still believe in Santa! Ha ha! We should try to think like a child at times. We are still children deep down inside. Thanks for reminding us. Blessings!
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I do love remembering. Thanks for commenting.
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I’m not much for tomatoes but boy your mother is a clean freak! o_o
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She’d had typhoid once and knew it was carried into water supply from human refuse.
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Reblogged this on Nutsrok and commented:
Reblog of an older post for a lazy Sunday
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The thoughts our parents put in our young minds were only half as terrifying as they were once we finished embellishing them for ourselves. 🙂
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I mind is a scary thing.
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That was a startling scatological delight! I enjoyed every bit of it. The exposition of children’s perspective is priceless. Carry on, Linda!
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I’m so glad you read and enjoyed.
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They probably had plenty of vitamin E coli and C difficile
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Loved the story. Dad had a whole sea of tomato plants one year, all “volunteered” by the septic tank.
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Did they give you typhoid!
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No Typhoid for us and if I know Dad he enjoyed them for their extraordinary flavour.
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Your dad was a realist!
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Oh lord, I remember the shed at the bottom of my great uncle’s garden. I was only little and desperate for the loo until I saw where I had to go (they had no indoor plumbing at all). It was the best cure for putting a bung in it!
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It didn’t make you want to linger and meditate.
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No chance! I ran like hell, there was no way I was putting my delicate little bottom on that! 🙂
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Ha!
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Great story. I take it your brother wasn’t as bothered about catching typhoid as you were!
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This was one of Mother’s stories.
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Oh yes, sorry! I am getting muddled in my old age! 🙂
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Don’t we all.
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Oh my! We used to actually believe what our parents told us! Glad you survived. ~Elle
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Amazing, isn’t it. Reading you book now. It i good. Will talk to you when I finish.
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Great! Thanks for reading! ~Elle
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Welcome.
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hee hee happy to here that the bugs didn’t getcha
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It wasn’t my fault!
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I truly love how you tell your stories. Engaging and fun to read.
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Thanks. I really appreciate that!
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We had one of those at my Grandpa’s old place in the 60’s! I remember having to get up at night and waking up my grandpa to come outside with me to pee!
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That was no fun, was it?
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