I am so thankful...

Friday night Mac and I were talking about our childhoods and the illnesses we had and especially our tonsils. I had tonsilitis at least four times a year, and I'm not talking a little sore throat, I'm talking "can't swallow spit" sore. It seems like one of those really really bad ones always hit when I was spending the summer at my grandparents. I don't know how long this tradition I'm about to impart had gone on before, but I'm telling you, if you had a sore throat, you didn't want to breathe a word of it in front of my grandmother. The first time....
my throat was so sore that I'm sure the inflammation came through my skin and showed on the outside. When I say I couldn't swallow spit, I mean it. My grandmother looked at me trying to sip water and eyes narrowing, she said "throat sore?" I nodded and she immediately went into the cabinet over the stove and took down this big purple bottle. From a mason jar, she removed a large long handled swab. "Open your mouth and let me look," she said. Not expecting anything other than a visual inspection of my swollen tonsils, I innocently opened wide. The next thing I knew my throat was thoroughly mopped with Gentian Violet, the purple medicine in the bottle that if I'm not mistaken, was also called Horse Remedy. The taste was bitter and strong and dyed your mouth and teeth for a day or two. The taste lasted much longer. Now whether or not it was a coincidence, sure enough within a day or two, I could once again swallow my own spit and take a little soup. For years if I heard anyone being asked "is your throat sore?" I would be standing behind my grandmother, eyes wide and shoulders drawn up to indicate danger while violently shaking my head to indicate to the victim to deny any problem with their throat. No one has ever been so happy to say farewell to a part of their body as I was to bid adeiu to my tonsils. Remind me to tell you about the turpentine on sugar treatment. It's a wonder I'm alive to tell the tale.