Gratitude for the Germ Tamers by Barbara Quinn

I have a head cold, so today I am grateful for Nyquil and Hall’s cough drops. These two items allow me to get through the days and nights without coughing my head off. It’s so strange to have your body taken over by a pesky virus which is akin to a messy houseguest who doesn’t leave after a day or two. You have no choice but to ride out the unwanted presence, knowing that in a few days life will return to normal. And times like this make me grateful for my general good health which I know will have me back to feeling right soon. What I dislike most right now is the coughing fits. They seize me at unpredictable times. Yesterday, I was in the supermarket selecting steaks for dinner when the coughing started and was so intense my eyes began to water. I retreated to a quiet aisle and reached for my Hall’s cough drops. In a few seconds that soothing cough drop dispatched the tickle in the back of my throat. I could return to my shopping which was truncated to gathering the necessities. Since I had been away I needed to get food into the house. Otherwise I’d have stayed in bed sipping tea and reading, and keeping my germs to myself. But we needed to eat, so I did a quick shop and returned home.

The steaks were barbecued and superb, and so was the Aglianico wine that we drank with them. After dinner I felt a lot better. But as soon as I lay down to sleep the coughing started again. I was ready with my bottle of Nyquil. One dose and I was soon in cough-free sleepland.

Thank you Hall’s and Nyquil for vanquishing the symptoms of my cold! If I could figure out how to prevent myself from falling victim to those viruses, I’d be even more grateful. Till then, I plan to stock up on cough syrup and cough drops.

Thanks for the Memories by Barbara Quinn

It’s cold outside. The windows are rattling and I’m sitting here nice and warm with my slippers tucked beneath my desk. I’m not much of a fan of the cold, but I do love the crisp, clean smell of a brisk winter day. The bone-chilling air reminds me of winters when I was a kid. Back then, I’d throw my ice skates over my shoulder and hike to a frozen, hidden pond where I would meet up with other kids who loved to skate. My dog accompanied me on these jaunts. Some of us would build a fire for warming our hands and feet in between hitting the ice again and again. Those who stayed late trudged home quickly, because once the sun set the cold became much more intense.

One frosty day, soon after I arrived, my dog ventured to a place where the pond’s ice was too thin. He fell through, yelping and howling. A couple of us struggled to get him out, fearful of falling in ourselves. When we freed him, I tried warming him by the fire. His shivering and shaking, and the white crystals on his fur, told me I had to do something more. He was so cold he couldn’t walk. I was ten years old, and he was thirty pounds. I picked him up and carried him. I thought my arms would break.

The walk home was longer than ever. I finally made it and wrapped him in blankets. Please don’t die, please don’t die, kept running through my head. I wiped the tears from my eyes and patted him dry. I still remember the feeling of relief and gratitude that flooded me when he shook off the blankets, jumped up and licked my face. Wet dog never smelled so good. Frisky is long gone, but he’s very much a part of my memories, memories I am thankful to have. And I’m grateful that at a young age I learned not only to struggle for something I love, but that sometimes things do turn out all right.