#Ozark Grannies Secrets

[cygnetbrown]

Organizing for a Profitable 2024

Last year my best sales occurred at the farmer’s market and at nearby festivals. I plan to change that this year. HAPPY NEW YEARS EVERYONE! Can you believe another year has passed and we are now in 2024?  I have often wondered why the year started at the beginning of winter rather than the beginning of spring. However, after thinking about it for a few weeks, I have decided that it makes a lot…

[darry-rules]

Bloody Bones

Way back in the deep woods there lived a scrawny old woman who had a reputation for being the best conjuring woman in the Ozarks. With her bedraggled black-and-gray hair, funny eyes – one yellow and one green – and her crooked nose, Old Betty was not a pretty picture, but she was the best there was at fixing what ailed a man, and that was all that counted.

Old Betty’s house was full of herbs and roots and bottles filled with conjuring medicine. The walls were lined with strange books brimming with magical spells. Old Betty was the only one living in the Hollow who knew how to read; her granny, who was also a conjurer, had taught her the skill as part of her magical training.

Just about the only friend Old Betty had was a tough, mean, ugly old razorback hog that ran wild around her place. It rooted so much in her kitchen garbage that all the leftover spells started affecting it. Some folks swore up and down that the old razorback hog sometimes walked upright like man. One fellow claimed he’d seen the pig sitting in the rocker on Old Betty’s porch, chattering away to her while she stewed up some potions in the kitchen, but everyone discounted that story on account of the fellow who told it was a little too fond of moonshine.

“Raw Head” was the name Old Betty gave the razorback, referring maybe to the way the ugly creature looked a bit like some of the dead pigs come butchering time down in Hog-Scald Hollow. The razorback didn’t mind the funny name. Raw Head kept following Old Betty around her little cabin and rooting up the kitchen leftovers. He’d even walk to town with her when she came to the local mercantile to sell her home remedies.

Well, folks in town got so used to seeing Raw Head and Old Betty around the town that it looked mighty strange one day around hog-driving time when Old Betty came to the mercantile without him.

“Where’s Raw Head?” the owner asked as he accepted her basket full of home-remedy potions. The liquid in the bottles swished in an agitate manner as Old Betty said: “I ain’t seen him around today, and I’m mighty worried. You seen him here in town?”

“Nobody’s seen him around today. They would’ve told me if they did,” the mercantile owner said. “We’ll keep a lookout fer you.”

“That’s mighty kind of you. If you see him, tell him to come home straightaway,” Old Betty said. The mercantile owner nodded agreement as he handed over her weekly pay.

Old Betty fussed to herself all the way home. It wasn’t like Raw Head to disappear, especially not the day they went to town. The man at the mercantile always saved the best scraps for the mean old razorback, and Raw Head never missed a visit. When the old conjuring woman got home, she mixed up a potion and poured it onto a flat plate.

“Where’s that old hog got to?” she asked the liquid. It clouded over and then a series of pictures formed. First, Old Betty saw the good-for-nothing hunter that lived on the next ridge sneaking around the forest, rounding up razorback hogs that didn’t belong to him. One of the hogs was Raw Head. Then she saw him taking the hogs down to Hog-Scald Hollow, where folks from the next town were slaughtering their razorbacks. Then she saw her hog, Raw Head, slaughtered with the rest of the pigs and hung up for gutting. The final picture in the liquid was the pile of bloody bones that had once been her hog, and his scraped-clean head lying with the other hogsheads in a pile.

Old Betty was infuriated by the death of her only friend. It was murder to her, plain and simple. Everyone in three counties knew that Raw Head was her friend, and that lazy, hog-stealing, good-for-nothing hunter on the ridge was going to pay for slaughtering him.

Now Old Betty tried to practice white conjuring most of the time, but she knew the dark secrets too. She pulled out an old, secret book her granny had given her and turned to the very last page. She lit several candles and put them around the plate containing the liquid picture of Raw Head and his bloody bones. Then she began to chant: “Raw Head and Bloody Bones. Raw Head and Bloody Bones.”

The light from the windows disappeared as if the sun had been snuffed out like a candle. Dark clouds billowed into the clearing where Old Betty’s cabin stood, and the howl of dark spirits could be heard in the wind that pummeled the treetops.

“Raw Head and Bloody Bones. Raw Head and Bloody Bones.”

Betty continued the chant until a bolt of silver lightning left the plate and streaked out through the window, heading in the direction of Hog-Scald Hollow.

When the silver light struck Raw Head’s severed head, which was piled on the hunter’s wagon with the other hog heads, it tumbled to the ground and rolled until it was touching the bloody bones that had once inhabited its body. As the hunter’s wagon rumbled away toward the ridge where he lived, the enchanted Raw Head called out: “Bloody bones, get up and dance!”

Immediately, the bloody bones reassembled themselves into the skeleton of a razorback hog walking upright, as Raw Head had often done when he was alone with Old Betty. The head hopped on top of his skeleton and Raw Head went searching through the woods for weapons to use against the hunter. He borrowed the sharp teeth of a dying panther, the claws of a long-dead bear, and the tail from a rotting raccoon and put them over his skinned head and bloody bones.

Then Raw Head headed up the track toward the ridge, looking for the hunter who had slaughtered him. Raw Head slipped passed the thief on the road and slid into the barn where the hunter kept his horse and wagon. Raw Head climbed up into the loft and waited for the hunter to come home.

It was dusk when the hunter drove into the barn and unhitched his horse. The horse snorted in fear, sensing the presence of Raw Head in the loft. Wondering what was disturbing his usually-calm horse, the hunter looked around and saw a large pair of eyes staring down at him from the darkness in the loft.

The hunter frowned, thinking it was one of the local kids fooling around in his barn.

“Land o’ Goshen, what have you got those big eyes fer?” he snapped, thinking the kids were trying to scare him with some crazy mask.

“To see your grave,” Raw Head rumbled very softly. The hunter snorted irritably and put his horse into the stall.

“Very funny. Ha, ha,” The hunter said. When he came out of the stall, he saw Raw Head had crept forward a bit further. Now his luminous yellow eyes and his bears claws could clearly be seen.

“Land o’ Goshen, what have you got those big claws fer?” he snapped. “You look ridiculous.”

“To dig your grave…” Raw Head intoned softly, his voice a deep rumble that raised the hairs on the back of the hunter’s neck. He stirred uneasily, not sure how the crazy kid in his loft could have made such a scary sound. If it really was a crazy kid.

Feeling a little spooked, he hurried to the door and let himself out of the barn. Raw Head slipped out of the loft and climbed down the side of the barn behind him. With nary a rustle to reveal his presence, Raw Head raced through the trees and up the path to a large, moonlight rock. He hid in the shadow of the huge stone so that the only things showing were his gleaming yellow eyes, his bear claws, and his raccoon tail.

When the hunter came level with the rock on the side of the path, he gave a startled yelp. Staring at Raw Head, he gasped: “You nearly knocked the heart right out of me, you crazy kid! Land o’ Goshen, what have you got that crazy tail fer?”

“To sweep your grave…” Raw Head boomed, his enchanted voice echoing through the woods, getting louder and louder with each echo. The hunter took to his heels and ran for his cabin. He raced past the old well-house, past the wood pile, over the rotting fence and into his yard. But Raw Head was faster. When the hunter reached his porch, Raw Head leapt from the shadows and loomed above him. The hunter stared in terror up at Raw Head’s gleaming yellow eyes in the ugly razorback hogshead, his bloody bone skeleton with its long bear claws, sweeping raccoon’s tail and his gleaming sharp panther teeth.

“Land o’ Goshen, what have you got those big teeth fer?” he gasped desperately, stumbling backwards from the terrible figure before him.

“To eat you up, like you wanted to eat me!” Raw Head roared, descending upon the good-for-nothing hunter. The murdering thief gave one long scream in the moonlight. Then there was silence, and the sound of crunching.

Nothing more was ever seen or heard of the lazy hunter who lived on the ridge. His horse also disappeared that night. But sometimes folks would see Raw Head roaming through the forest in the company of his friend Old Betty. And once a month, on the night of the full moon, Raw Head would ride the hunter’s horse through town, wearing the old man’s blue overalls over his bloody bones with a hole cut-out for his raccoon tail. In his bloody, bear-clawed hands, he carried his raw, razorback hogshead, lifting it high against the full moon for everyone to see.

[musingsofabookworm1]

My Last Five Reads

Spring break didn't hold much for reading. Neither did the second half of march in general, but it did hold some good reads.

The American Daughters by Maurice Carlos Ruffin - The plot synopsis on the flap/Goodreads told way too much about this book. I think I rated it a 4 instead of a 5 due to waiting for what was divulged. So I will divulge much less. Ady and her mother Sanite are slaves. They spend their days and nights together, and Ady adores the stories her mother tells of the strong women they descended from. Then the two get separated. The plot is good. The writing is top notch. Just don't read anything about it before you start because Ady's story just won't be as poignant.

After Annie by Anna Quindlen - I felt like this book took me forever to read. According to Goodreads, it took 6 days. But to me, that is forever. And it took forever because of the gut-wrenching sadness of the plot. In the first chapter, Annie dies of a brain aneurysm. She leaves behind a husband, four children, and a best friend who don't know what to do without her. But Ali, the oldest of the children at fourteen, is the one who decides she has to be the one in charge of her siblings and the two aforementioned adults. Heartbreaking doesn't even begin to describe the feeling I got each time I opened the book. It's extremely well written (no surprise from this author) and raw with emotion. 4 stars.

The Last One Home by Victoria Helen Stone - This was a pretty average read started just before our spring break trip to Atlanta, read at night at the hotel when I couldn't sleep, and at the airport before we flew home. There are two timelines: present day with Lauren and 35 years ago with her mother, Donna. In the present timeline, Lauren's paternal grandmother has suffered a stroke and can no longer live in the family home. She "wills" it, per se, to Lauren. Her mother, Donna, has ... issues with her father's family. These issues have caused Lauren trouble throughout her life and continue to do so into her adulthood. Secrets are uncovered as Lauren tries to begin a new life away from her ex in this secluded farmhouse. Writing wasn't bad. Plot was a bit unrealistic. Not bad, not good, just average. 3 stars.

The Witch of Tin Mountain by Paulette Kennedy - A good with witch novel! At the start, I was a little leery as I wasn't connecting the characters with one another, but once things became clearer, I liked it even more. The plot spans mainly 100 years: 1831 - 1931 in Arkansas. In 1831, we briefly meet Celeste who is giving up her son and an important book seemingly walking off to her death. A hundred years later, Gracelynn and her adoptive grandmother continue to live in the Ozarks among whispers that the "cures" they create make them witches. When an evangelist comes to town, the townspeople no longer need said cures. But even worse, Granny recognizes him. Because in the middle of these 100 years, she saw this man in another form and made a deadly promise. I'll end there because this one is too good to spoil! 4 stars

A Great Country by Shilpi Somaya Gowda - The Shah family is living the American dream in a gated community in California. The parents came to America from India, built up a tech-start-up, and have created an ideal life for their children. But at a dinner party one night, they receive a phone call that their 12-year-old son has been arrested. This book was short. Not even 250 pages. And for almost half, the arrest is a mystery as the author spends time building character background. As I read, this irritated me because I so badly wanted to know what was happening to the son. Though I understand now why the author did this: wanting the reader to feel the same anxiety the parents did when they did not know what happened to their son. Once we do find out, the book stays in present-day and focuses on the plot of the legal battle following the arrest and how the event affects the entirety of the family: including the high-school-age daughters. Timely, moving, and an incredible amount of character and plot put into a short amount of pages. 5 stars.

[ozarkhealingtraditions]

From the Archives: Chicken and Rooster Lore

For all those farmers out there, both rural and urban alike, here’s some chicken and rooster lore from Vance Randolph’s Ozark Magic and Folklore for you.

Weather Signs:

“Some country women believe that chickens are somehow able to tell what the weather is to be for several days in advance. When chickens or turkeys stand with their backs to the wind, so that their feathers are ruffled, a storm is on the way. If hens spread their tail feathers and oil them conspicuously, it is sure to rain very soon.” “A storm is expected, too, if the chickens are seen going to roost earlier than usual. Mrs. Mueller says also that ‘if chickens stand on the woodpile and pick their feathers, rain is on the way.'” “When chickens and other fowls are seen feeding in the fields during a shower, it means that the rainy weather will continue for at least twenty-four hours longer.”

Crops and Livestock:

“The old-timers long ago discovered, or at least believed, that chickens which roost in cedar trees are healthy and free from mites and other parasites, so that many farmers periodically cut cedar boughs and put them in their hencoops. A few years ago, when bananas became common in the village stores, people somehow got the notion that a banana stalk hung up in a ‘chicken house would rid the whole place of mites and chicken lice, and these stalks are still seen in outbuildings occasionally.” “Some chicken raisers tell me that it is a mistake to keep chickens near a potato patch, or near a place where potatoes are stored. The smell of potatoes, it is said, makes hens quit laying and want to brood. I have often seen hens with corn shucks fastened to their tails this is supposed to discourage a settin’ hen in a few days.” “It is generally thought best to set eggs in the light of the moon. Never set a hen or an incubator when the wind is blowing from the south, or mighty few of the eggs will hatch. Eggs carried in a woman’s bonnet, it is said, invariably make pullets.” “Unusually long eggs, or eggs with shells noticeably rough at one end, are also regarded as ‘rooster eggs.’ It is said that eggs set on Sunday produce roosters, but one hears also that eggs placed under a hen in the forenoon, no matter what the day, always hatch a majority of pullets. Some hillfolk believe that chicks hatched in May, regardless of how favorable the other conditions may be, will never mature properly.” “There are several magic tricks to protect domestic fowl from birds of prey. Mrs. Lillian Short, of Galena, Missouri, tells me that one of her neighbors used to take a smooth stone from a runnin’ branch, just about big enough to fit the palm of the hand, and keep it in the oven of the cookstove this was supposed to prevent hawks from killing the chickens. Most hillfolk of my acquaintance use a horseshoe instead of the stone, and some think that a muleshoe is even better. It is frequently fastened in the firebox of the stove rather than in the oven. In the old days the muleshoe was hung up in the fireplace, or even set into the mortar at the back of the chimney.” “Some chicken grannies pull one feather out of each chicken in their flock and bury these feathers deep in the dirt under the henhouse or henroost. As long as the feathers remain there, it is believed that those particular chickens cannot be carried off by hawks or varmints, or stolen by human chicken thieves.” “There are several peculiar taboos against mentioning aloud the exact number of chickens in a flock, or cattle in a herd, particularly if it happens to be an even number one divisible by two. A real old-timer never counts aloud the flowers or fruit on a tree, or the number of peas in a pod, or even the number of ears on a stalk of corn, because of an ancient notion that this counting may injure the crop.”

Household Superstitions:

“When two roosters fight in the yard, it is said that two young men will soon arrive; if two hens fight, female visitors are expected.” “In some sections of Arkansas there are people who bury the entrails of a black hen under the hearth on ‘Old Christmas.’ This is said to protect the house against destruction by lightning or fire.”

Mountain Medicine:

“Some old settlers make poultices of chicken manure mixed with lard as a treatment for pneumonia; it is said that the dung of black chickens is best.” “The inner lining of a chicken’s gizzard, chopped fine and made into a tea, is used in cases of dyspepsia, stomach cramps, colitis, and so on. They tell me that this stuff ‘settles the stummick’ quicker than anything found in the drugstore.” “Other local healers contended that a big dose of dill tea, or tea made of the inner lining of a chicken gizzard, would cure hiccoughs almost immediately.”

The Power Doctors:

“An old man in Pineville, Missouri, told me as a great secret that he could cure any wart by squeezing a drop of blood out of it on a grain of corn and feeding the corn to a red rooster. According to another version of this story, it is best to rub the wart with two grains of corn, feed one to the rooster, and carry the other in your pocket.” “Many people think it is a good idea to burn feathers from a black hen under the bed of a fever patient. I have seen the feathers of black chickens dried and saved in little paper bags for this purpose.” “A power doctor near Fayetteville, Arkansas, says that in order to cure shingles one has only to cut off the head of a black chicken and smear the blood thickly over the affected parts. Wrap the patient in sheets and let the whole mess dry. Next morning you just soak the wrappings off, and the shingles will be gone.” “At many points in Missouri and Arkansas country folk treat chickenpox by bringing a black hen and chickens into the sickroom and making them walk over the patient’s body as he lies in bed. Near Bentonville, Arkansas, I knew a woman who brought a black rooster into her house and placed it again and again upon the bed where a little boy lay sick with chickenpox.”

Courtship and Marriage:

“The fresh blood of a chicken, that of a black pullet in particular, is also said to remove freckles and make the skin white and creamy.” “Many mountain women say that to eat chicken hearts, especially raw chicken hearts, will make any girl good looking; I know one poor damsel who ate them for years, but without any benefit so far as I could see.”

Pregnancy and Childbirth:

“After the babe is delivered, some hillfolk burn a handful of chicken feathers under the bed, as this is supposed to stop hemorrhage. If the woman has a really bad ‘bleedin’ they kill a chicken and fasten the warm lining of its gizzard over the affected part, usually burning a few feathers at the same time. Needless to say, one never sweeps under the bed of a woman in childbirth, or she would surely die. So the ashes of corncobs, chicken feathers or anything else that is burned must lie there until the woman is up and about.”

Ozark Witchcraft:

“Some witches are said to kill people with graveyard dirt, which is dust scraped from a grave with the left forefinger at midnight. This is mixed with the blood of a black bird; a raven or crow is best, but a black chicken will do in a pinch.” “One old woman in my neighborhood was unable to walk without crutches, but whenever a chicken was to be killed she insisted on doing the job herself. One of the boys would catch the chicken and bring it to granny as she sat in her chair under a tree. As she wrung the chicken’s neck she spoke the name of an ancient enemy of hers.”

Death and Burial:

“If a hen makes any sound suggestive of crowing near the door, it is a sure sign of death, and I have been told of cases in which somebody died within ten minutes. A crowing hen will excite any group of backwoods people; I have seen a man spring up and fire his revolver wildly into a flock of chickens, killing several. Some people do not hesitate to eat a crowing hen, but this man would not allow one to be cooked in his house. ‘Throw it to the hogs,’ said he, ‘and if they won’t eat the damn thing, we’ll sell it to the tourists!'”“It is a bad sign for a rooster to crow in the doorway; if anybody is dangerously ill in the house it usually means death. If a rooster crows seven times in front of the door without turning around, it means that someone in the family is going to die soon, whether any of them are sick now or not.”

[cygnetbrown]

Simple Ways to Predict Rain in the Ozarks

Kerry Kelley and I are publishing a book from Ozark Grannies’ Secrets about foraging and cooking foraged foods called Gourmet Weeds. Here’s a link to the Facebook page for the book. Foraging is fun especially here in the Ozarks, but we have the most changeable weather in the country. When they say “If you don’t like the weather, don’t worry, it will change” is truer of the Ozarks than any other…

[cygnetbrown]

Biscuits and Gravy

A few days ago, someone on Twitter asked what biscuits and gravy was. I wrote, “They are only the most delicious and satisfying breakfast food in the world. It’s hot sausage cream gravy over baking powder and buttermilk biscuits.” As you can tell, I think biscuits and gravy is my favorite food that is native to here in the Ozarks. It hasn’t always been that way because I have not always lived in…

[cygnetbrown]

Why the Ozarks?

When I first tell someone that I grew up in Pennsylvania, but now call the Ozarks my home the next question that person always asks is why I moved to the Ozarks. I first fell in love with the Ozarks when I came through the area back in 1979. I immediately felt a longing to get off the bus and stop and stay. Perhaps I should have, but it wasn’t yet time. However, the small houses and rustic…

[cygnetbrown]

Journeying from Writer to Publisher

Here’s the cover of the first book in The Ozark Grannies’ Secret Series. Lately, I have been establishing my business Ozark Grannies’ Secrets, and have been at the same time working with Kerry Kelley with the first book in our Ozark Grannies’ Secrets series called Gourmet Weeds which is about the native and naturalized plants that you may find in your backyard that you didn’t plant. Starting a…

[cygnetbrown]

Interview with Kerry Kelley Author and Editor of Ozark Grannies' Secrets

Interview with Kerry Kelley Author and Editor of Ozark Grannies’ Secrets

I can’t remember exactly when I first met Kerry, but I know it was sometime between 1989 and 1990. All I can tell you about knowing Kerry was that we became long-term acquaintances so I can say that I knew her for thirty-four years, I just never knew her well. Friendly Acquaintances When my boys were young, we had a goat that we had to rehome because we were moving from the farm we lived on to…

[cygnetbrown]

Updated Online Privacy Agreement

We have just completed writing a new updated online policy agreement for Ozark Grannies’ Secrets LLC, the parent company of this blog. You can read it at http://authorcygnetbrown.com/author-cygnet-brown-profile-page/online-privacy-policy-agreement/ There’s nothing to sign, just legal information to demonstrate that we value your privacy as much as you do.

[cygnetbrown]

Updated Online Policy Agreement

We have just completed writing a new updated online policy agreement for Ozark Grannies’ Secrets LLC, the parent company of this blog. You can read it at http://authorcygnetbrown.com/author-cygnet-brown-profile-page/online-privacy-policy-agreement/ There’s nothing to sign, just legal information to demonstrate that we value your privacy as much as you do.

[cygnetbrown]

A Neat Way to Purchase Books Online

Purchase your book locally online using Bookshop.org! I’m sure that you know that you will be able to purchase Ozark Grannies’ Secrets LLC’s debut book Gourmet Weeds online stores like Amazon and Barnes and Noble. The problem with this is that it may support the author to some extent, but it doesn’t support the local marketplace. What if I told you that there is a way to not only support your…

[cygnetbrown]

Ozark Grannies' Secrets

Ozark Grannies’ Secrets

Excited About Our New Venture Starting a New Book Series: Ozark Grannies’ Secrets To join in more of the fun, check out Ozark Grannies’ Secrets on Facebook Over the summer, I was selling cookies and books as well as some produce at the farmers’ market and even though there were times when we were busy, there were also times when we weren’t so I would talk with other vendors about things. One…

[ozarkhealingtraditions]

From the Archives: Fevers

Up until about fifty years ago, and much later in some remote places in the Ozark Mountains, a fever was a deadly foe for anybody that caught one. Folk doctors have developed a lot of successful ways of breaking fevers, some involving plant medicines other’s involving what might appear to be works of “hocus pocus,” but regardless, these cures have stuck around because of how effective they are. If they didn’t work no one would remember them. So I’d like to give some examples of these fever cures from a few different traditions.

Ozarks

Vance Randolph’s Ozark Magic and Folklore

“Dr. W. O. Cralle, of Springfield, Missouri, writes me that some backwoods friends of his have used a tea of onions and wild lobelia with great success, in cases of ‘pneumony fever.'” “Boneset tea is a favorite remedy for chills, fever, and ague. A tea made of elderberry roots is good, too. Some people have great confidence in blade-fodder tea, especially if the fodder has been kept in a dry place. Seneca-root or rattlesnake weed (Senega) is said to make a mighty fine chills-and-fever medicine. The unfermented juice of the little wild possum grapes is supposed to cure malaria. Uncle Jack Short of Galena, Missouri, says that he used to drink gallons of peach-bark tea every fall for his ‘ager’; also a tea made by boiling sheep manure, with a little spicewood added to kill the unpleasant taste. Fanny D. Bergen observes that ‘in central Missouri one is recommended to take for ague a whole pepper-corn every morning for seven consecutive mornings.’ The plant known as fever-root (Corallorhiza odontorhiza) is also used to reduce fevers and is a mild sedative as well. A gentleman in Cyclone, Missouri, tells me that his family made a ‘chill remedy’ that was in great demand; the exact formula was kept secret, he says, but the main ingredient was crushed burdock seeds.” “To cure malaria, chills, fever, and ague all you need is a hickory peg about a foot long. Drive it into the ground in some secluded place, where you can visit it unseen. Do not tell anyone about this business. Go there every day, pull up the peg, blow seven times into the hole, and replace the peg. After you have done this for twelve successive days, drive the peg deep into the earth so that it cannot be seen, and leave it there. You’ll have no more chills and fever that season. If the cure doesn’t work, it means that you have been seen blowing into the hole, or that you have inadvertently mentioned it to somebody.” “Some families are accustomed to treat chills-an’-fever by placing an ax under the patient’s bed. Since this procedure is also used in 'granny-cases' to relieve the pains of childbirth, there are many jokes and wisecracks about it. I once went to see a very fat man, who had malarial fever. He stayed in bed as the doctor ordered and took the doctor’s medicine, but his wife held to the old superstition and insisted on putting an ax under the bed. I noticed this when I came into the room, and asked: ‘What’s that ax doing there? You expecting burglars?’ He laughed and clasped both hands over his great paunch, twisting his face in a ghastly imitation of a woman in labor. ‘Naw,’ he answered, “just expectin’!'” “Many people think it is a good idea to burn feathers from a black hen under the bed of a fever patient. I have seen the feathers of black chickens dried and saved in little paper bags for this purpose. For night sweats some hillfolk put a pan of water under the bed; I have known the wife of an M.D. to do this in her own home, without the doctor’s knowledge. May Stafford Hilburn says that ‘if the case was persistent we sprinkled black pepper in the water. Usually in three nights an improvement could be noticed, but in some cases it might take a week. This remedy seldom failed. In fact, I do not know of a case where it did fail.'” Granny Gore

“‘Had lots of cures for colds and pneumonia. One of them was smokin’ ’em with the cobs. You took and surrounded them with a steamin’ hot blanket and put smoking corncobs around them to smoke out the fever. Once’t a lady tal’ a doctor that she had tried smolcin’ ’em with the cobs, he asked what color she used, and she replied white. He tol’ her next time to use the red cobs. Then skunk oil an’ mutton taler was a good cure, and possum grease. Take a fresh kilt animal and render the grease from him, and rub thoroughly on the patient. Slippery elm bark tea is good. Bile the leaves of a slippery elm or the bark and drink the juices. Coal oil and honey is still used fer cough and pneumonia.'”

Louisiana Creole/Cajun

“Make a tea with elderflowers and drink that.” “When someone has a fever give them tea made with marsh elder. Give them a cup three times a day.” “Boil wormwood flowers, then put the water in a tub.  Heat it up, then put the person over the vapor. Make sure they’re covered well.” “Pick elderflowers on Saint John’s Day and then dry them in the sun. When they’re really dry make a tea with them and drink three small cups a day.” “You boil wild wormwood and make a tea, then you drink that three or four times a day.” “Some of us give malomé rouge. We boil that and take it three times a day. At the end of three days it will cut the fever.” “You take some red willow bark from off the side facing the setting sun. You put the bark in whiskey. Then you in put nine nails that have never been used and put in nine green coffee beans. Then you add a little bit of wormwood tea. Then you add two doses of quinine in there. Drink a spoonful of that tea three times a day.”

Pennsylvania German Braucherei

John George Hohman’s Pow-Wows or Long Lost Friend

A GOOD REMEDY FOR THE FEVER Good morning, dear Thursday! Take away from [name] the 77-fold fevers. Oh! thou dear Lord Jesus Christ, take them away from him! + + + This must be used on Thursday for the first time, on Friday for the second time, and on Saturday for the third time; and each time thrice. The prayer of faith has also to be said each time, and not a word dare be spoken to anyone until the sun has risen. Neither dare the sick person speak to anyone till after sunrise; nor eat pork, nor drink milk, nor cross a running water, for nine days. TO BANISH CONVULSIVE FEVERS Write the following letters on a piece of white paper, sew it on a piece of linen or muslin, and bang it around the neck until the fever leaves you: A b a x a C a t a b a x A b a x a C a t a b a x A b a x a C a t a b a A b a x a C a t a b A b a x a C a t a A b a x a C a t A b a x a C a A b a x a C A b a x a A b a x A b a A b A HOW TO BANISH THE FEVER Write the following words upon a paper and wrap it up in knot-grass, (breiten megrich,) and then tie it upon the body of the person who has the fever: Potmat sineat, Potmat sineat, Potmat sineat. REMEDY FOR FEVER, WORMS, AND THE COLIC Jerusalem, thou Jewish city, In which Christ our Lord, was born, Thou shalt turn into water and blood, Because it is for [name] fever, worms, and colic good. ​ AGAINST THE FEVER Pray early in the morning, and then turn your shirt around the left sleeve, and say: Turn, thou, shirt, and thou, fever, do likewise turn. (Do not forget to mention the name of the person having the fever.) This, I tell thee, for thy repentance sake, in the name of God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen. If you repeat this for three successive mornings the fever will disappear.

[ozarkhealingtraditions]

From the Archives: The Razorback

Across the world, the wild boar and feral pig (two distinct critters though often overlapping in legend) have been scaring hunters shitless for centuries. As a fiercely aggressive animal it’s no wonder there are so many legends surrounding the beast. Ozarkers inherited much of their razorback lore from their Appalachian ancestors, who most likely their tales over with them from Europe. There are very few indigenous tales and beliefs surrounding the wild pig and wild boar, as they are not native to the Americas, and were introduced by the Spanish in the 16th century. Often indigenous stories of bear hunts merged with wild pig hunts after introduction to North America as the two animals were both famously feared by hunters. Across Europe, however, there are tons of legends about the fierceness of boars and the danger of boar hunts. The animal almost reached the status of deity for many people, rightly so, early on in our history when on the boar hunt it’s the decisions of boar that determines whether or not you die. There are two different Stone Age European burial sites that include boar tusks as a part of the grave goods, showing the spiritual importance of the animal to our ancestors. One is the Bad Dürrenberg grave, the other is at Upton Lovell. Often the hero of a legend will need to face off with a boar in order to continue their quest, as in the Welsh tale from the Mabinogion where Culhwch seeks to win the hand of his beloved Olwen. Olwen’s father, Ysbaddaden, is a giant who issues Culhwch with a lengthy list of ridiculously difficult tasks to fulfill before he can marry Olwen. The final tasks are to cut Ysbaddaden’s hair and shave off his beard. The giant’s beard was so tough that to soften it Culhwch had to obtain the blood of the Black Witch. And the only thing sharp enough to cut the beard was the tusk of the wild boar Ysgithyrwn. After killing this boar, Culhwch (with help from his cousin Arthur), had to get the only scissors and comb up to the task of dealing with the giant’s hair. These just happened to be between the ears of Twrch Trwth, an Irish king who had been transformed into an irate boar with poisonous bristles. In Greek mythology killing the mythic Erymanthian Boar was one of the Twelve Labors of Hercules. In Norse mythology the golden-bristled boar Gullinbursti was friend to the god Freyr:

“Sindri laid a pigskin in the hearth and bade Brokkr blow, and did not cease work until he took out of the hearth that which he had laid therein. But when he went out of the smithy, while the other dwarf was blowing, straightway a fly settled upon his hand and stung: yet he blew on as before, until the smith took the work out of the hearth; and it was a boar, with mane and bristles of gold. … Then Brokkr brought forward his gifts: … to Freyr he gave the boar, saying that it could run through air and water better than any horse, and it could never become so dark with night or gloom of the Murky Regions that there should not be sufficient light where he went, such was the glow from its mane and bristles.” In the Appalachian and Ozark mountains tales about pig or razorback hunts abound. It seems like every hunter has a story about the pig that nearly killed him. Usually these stories are recounted in great detail around a big fire, slowly cooking the very pig in the story. In one story the razorback even merges with the European bogeyman named “Bloody Bones”. Here’s the story as retold by S.E. Schlosser: Way back in the deep woods there lived a scrawny old woman who had a reputation for being the best conjuring woman in the Ozarks. With her bedraggled black-and-gray hair, funny eyes – one yellow and one green – and her crooked nose, Old Betty was not a pretty picture, but she was the best there was at fixing what ailed a man, and that was all that counted. Old Betty’s house was full of herbs and roots and bottles filled with conjuring medicine. The walls were lined with strange books brimming with magical spells. Old Betty was the only one living in the Hollow who knew how to read; her granny, who was also a conjurer, had taught her the skill as part of her magical training. Just about the only friend Old Betty had was a tough, mean, ugly old razorback hog that ran wild around her place. It rooted so much in her kitchen garbage that all the leftover spells started affecting it. Some folks swore up and down that the old razorback hog sometimes walked upright like man. One fellow claimed he’d seen the pig sitting in the rocker on Old Betty’s porch, chattering away to her while she stewed up some potions in the kitchen, but everyone discounted that story on account of the fellow who told it was a little too fond of moonshine. “Raw Head” was the name Old Betty gave the razorback, referring maybe to the way the ugly creature looked a bit like some of the dead pigs come butchering time down in Hog-Scald Hollow. The razorback didn’t mind the funny name. Raw Head kept following Old Betty around her little cabin and rooting up the kitchen leftovers. He’d even walk to town with her when she came to the local mercantile to sell her home remedies. Well, folks in town got so used to seeing Raw Head and Old Betty around the town that it looked mighty strange one day around hog-driving time when Old Betty came to the mercantile without him. “Where’s Raw Head?” the owner asked as he accepted her basket full of home-remedy potions. The liquid in the bottles swished in an agitate manner as Old Betty said: “I ain’t seen him around today, and I’m mighty worried. You seen him here in town?” “Nobody’s seen him around today. They would’ve told me if they did,” the mercantile owner said. “We’ll keep a lookout fer you.” “That’s mighty kind of you. If you see him, tell him to come home straightaway,” Old Betty said. The mercantile owner nodded agreement as he handed over her weekly pay. Old Betty fussed to herself all the way home. It wasn’t like Raw Head to disappear, especially not the day they went to town. The man at the mercantile always saved the best scraps for the mean old razorback, and Raw Head never missed a visit. When the old conjuring woman got home, she mixed up a potion and poured it onto a flat plate. “Where’s that old hog got to?” she asked the liquid. It clouded over and then a series of pictures formed. First, Old Betty saw the good-for-nothing hunter that lived on the next ridge sneaking around the forest, rounding up razorback hogs that didn’t belong to him. One of the hogs was Raw Head. Then she saw him taking the hogs down to Hog-Scald Hollow, where folks from the next town were slaughtering their razorbacks. Then she saw her hog, Raw Head, slaughtered with the rest of the pigs and hung up for gutting. The final picture in the liquid was the pile of bloody bones that had once been her hog, and his scraped-clean head lying with the other hogsheads in a pile. Old Betty was infuriated by the death of her only friend. It was murder to her, plain and simple. Everyone in three counties knew that Raw Head was her friend, and that lazy, hog-stealing, good-for-nothing hunter on the ridge was going to pay for slaughtering him.

Now Old Betty tried to practice white conjuring most of the time, but she knew the dark secrets too. She pulled out an old, secret book her granny had given her and turned to the very last page. She lit several candles and put them around the plate containing the liquid picture of Raw Head and his bloody bones. Then she began to chant: “Raw Head and Bloody Bones. Raw Head and Bloody Bones.” The light from the windows disappeared as if the sun had been snuffed out like a candle. Dark clouds billowed into the clearing where Old Betty’s cabin stood, and the howl of dark spirits could be heard in the wind that pummeled the treetops. “Raw Head and Bloody Bones. Raw Head and Bloody Bones.” Betty continued the chant until a bolt of silver lightning left the plate and streaked out threw the window, heading in the direction of Hog-Scald Hollow. When the silver light struck Raw Head’s severed head, which was piled on the hunter’s wagon with the other hog heads, it tumbled to the ground and rolled until it was touching the bloody bones that had once inhabited its body. As the hunter’s wagon rumbled away toward the ridge where he lived, the enchanted Raw Head called out: “Bloody bones, get up and dance!” Immediately, the bloody bones reassembled themselves into the skeleton of a razorback hog walking upright, as Raw Head had often done when he was alone with Old Betty. The head hopped on top of his skeleton and Raw Head went searching through the woods for weapons to use against the hunter. He borrowed the sharp teeth of a dying panther, the claws of a long-dead bear, and the tail from a rotting raccoon and put them over his skinned head and bloody bones. Then Raw Head headed up the track toward the ridge, looking for the hunter who had slaughtered him. Raw Head slipped passed the thief on the road and slid into the barn where the hunter kept his horse and wagon. Raw Head climbed up into the loft and waited for the hunter to come home. It was dusk when the hunter drove into the barn and unhitched his horse. The horse snorted in fear, sensing the presence of Raw Head in the loft. Wondering what was disturbing his usually-calm horse, the hunter looked around and saw a large pair of eyes staring down at him from the darkness in the loft. The hunter frowned, thinking it was one of the local kids fooling around in his barn. “Land o’ Goshen, what have you got those big eyes fer?” he snapped, thinking the kids were trying to scare him with some crazy mask. “To see your grave,” Raw Head rumbled very softly. The hunter snorted irritably and put his horse into the stall. “Very funny. Ha,ha,” The hunter said. When he came out of the stall, he saw Raw Head had crept forward a bit further. Now his luminous yellow eyes and his bears claws could clearly be seen. “Land o’ Goshen, what have you got those big claws fer?” he snapped. “You look ridiculous.” “To dig your grave…” Raw Head intoned softly, his voice a deep rumble that raised the hairs on the back of the hunter’s neck. He stirred uneasily, not sure how the crazy kid in his loft could have made such a scary sound. If it really was a crazy kid. Feeling a little spooked, he hurried to the door and let himself out of the barn. Raw Head slipped out of the loft and climbed down the side of the barn behind him. With nary a rustle to reveal his presence, Raw Head raced through the trees and up the path to a large, moonlight rock. He hid in the shadow of the huge stone so that the only things showing were his gleaming yellow eyes, his bear claws, and his raccoon tail. When the hunter came level with the rock on the side of the path, he gave a startled yelp. Staring at Raw Head, he gasped: “You nearly knocked the heart right out of me, you crazy kid! Land o’ Goshen, what have you got that crazy tail fer?” “To sweep your grave…” Raw Head boomed, his enchanted voice echoing through the woods, getting louder and louder with each echo. The hunter took to his heels and ran for his cabin. He raced passed the old well-house, passed the wood pile, over the rotting fence and into his yard. But Raw Head was faster. When the hunter reached his porch, Raw Head leapt from the shadows and loomed above him. The hunter stared in terror up at Raw Head’s gleaming yellow eyes in the ugly razorback hogshead, his bloody bone skeleton with its long bear claws, sweeping raccoon’s tail and his gleaming sharp panther teeth. “Land o’ Goshen, what have you got those big teeth fer?” he gasped desperately, stumbling backwards from the terrible figure before him. “To eat you up, like you wanted to eat me!” Raw Head roared, descending upon the good-for-nothing hunter. The murdering thief gave one long scream in the moonlight. Then there was silence, and the sound of crunching. Nothing more was ever seen or heard of the lazy hunter who lived on the ridge. His horse also disappeared that night. But sometimes folks would see Raw Head roaming through the forest in the company of his friend Old Betty. And once a month, on the night of the full moon, Raw Head would ride the hunter’s horse through town, wearing the old man’s blue overalls over his bloody bones with a hole cut-out for his raccoon tail. In his bloody, bear-clawed hands, he carried his raw, razorback hogshead, lifting it high against the full moon for everyone to see. Just the other day I even found a poem about the fabled Arkansas razorback from journalist and poet Fred W. Allsopp: ​ Folks talk about the Razor-back In terms of deep derision. The porcine is a crack-a-jack, If you rate my decision. He walks away a suckling pig, And gambles in the woods; He finds ripe mast and worms will dig In fertile neighborhoods. Dogs find him nimble as the fleas. He seldom needs be fed; His simple life precludes the ease That kills the thoroughbred. When hick’ry nuts and acorns fail To fall upon the ground, His sides and snout the trees assail And shake nuts all around. In six months by the almanac, Unless corralled before, Returns to us a razor-back, Four hundred pounds or more. A little corn mixed with his swill Will soon the hog prepare To grace the farmer’s autumn kill And stock the smoke-house bare. Rich sausages to fill a vat The sweetest hams e’er eaten, With steaks of red and lumps of fat In side-meat never beaten. Let folks speak of the Razor-back In terms of deep derision, But that he is crack-a-jack Is still my ripe decision.