Mr. Chris
Mr. Chris was the owner of the Sohio gas station located across the street from our house in Randolph. He was a gruff old German, and looked like Don Rickles after someone had beaten him with an ugly stick. He also had a temperament to match. Almost everyone in town was afraid of him for very good reason. He was known to physically beat the tar out of anyone who disagreed with him or gave him any lip. Because of his sour personality he had everyone in town intimidated – everyone that is, except my dad.
One time Mr. Chris got into a fight with a customer from out of town, over what I don’t remember. Mr. Chris and the customer ended up rolling around in the mud in front of the gas station trying to choke each other. During the fracas somehow Mr. Chris bit the other man’s thumb. I don’t remember if he bit the thumb completely off or if it just was good and bloody, but the bite did serious damage to the man’s hand. Everyone was afraid to bring this incident up to Mr. Chris – except my dad. Every year on the anniversary of the bloody thumb fight Dad would find an old glove, cut the thumb halfway off, dip the thumb stub into a can of red paint, put it on his right hand and go over to the station and shake hands with Mr. Chris, at the same time wishing him a happy anniversary. He was the only person in town who could do something like this and still stay alive.
We had two doctors in the area, one was my uncle Walter Lang who was about about 5 feet tall. The other was Dr. Silbiger, the town GP, who was Jewish. One time Mr. Chris became ill and had to spend time in the hospital. My father went to visit him, and asked him how he was being treated. Mr. Chris replied gruffly, “At 5 in the morning when I am trying to sleep I keep getting pestered by the goddamn nurses who want to check my armpits, look down my throat, take my blood, give me a shot, and stick a thermometer up my ass. Then the doctors come in. First the Jew comes in to check me over, and then the Shrimp comes in and does the same damn thing. Between the Jew, the Shrimp and the nurses a man can’t get no damn sleep around here!”
Mr. Jake
One morning I was hanging out in the post office where my mother was working when I heard this strange noise out in front. It sounded like someone was scraping a piece of metal against the sidewalk. When I looked out the front window I saw the old farmer Mr. Jake coming up the steps. On his right foot instead of a shoe he had tied a bread pan. Inside the pan surrounding his bare foot was a generous helping of very fresh cow manure. He explained to Mom that he had stepped on an old board in his barnyard and a nail had pierced his foot. He said that the manure would draw out the soreness and cause the wound to heal.
I don’t know if Dr. Oz or Bristol-Myers ever heard of this cure, but it appeared to be effective since Mr. Jake didn’t need an amputation or develop lock-jaw. This method seemed to work since there were no further infections to the foot or other complications that couldn’t be cured by a good hot bath and a half-gallon of Chanel No. 5.