Thistle Tea…

 When I was five years old,  the man I was named after died at the of age 62.   I have no direct memories of him.   I’m told he was a serious fellow,  a hard worker, a successful entrepreneur, strong in faith, family and frugality, and since he was married to my grandmother for over forty years, probably a heckuva good dancer.  

I will be 62 next week.  Well aware that the coconut does not fall far from the tree, I admit to being a little nervous.  Since photos were not commonplace back then, there are only two photos of him and me together, both black and white and fading and cherished greatly.   Rarely do I look at the photos but I still keep these sweet links to our past stored safely in the cloud with my digital collection of over 10,000 other photos.  

One photo shows the two of us soaking our feet in a bucket of warm salt water.  I’m looking at the camera talking about something.  He is smiling down at me.  Must have been quite the moment for us both.  I look awkward.  He looks great.   

So, last night I had a vivid dream.  Like in the photo, Papa and I are both soaking our feet.  It’s so real I can feel the warm water between my toes and hear my grandmother clanging in the kitchen.   Papa smiles at me.   

And in black and white, he tells me, “Drink thistle tea”.   Never heard of it.  But he repeats himself, “Drink thistle tea!”

I’m five.  I ask “How do I get it?”  

“You buy it at the store.  It’s two hundred dollars.  Go get it.  I’ll pay for it.”  

And he hands me his charge card.  

I wake up startled and more than a little curious about this unheard of bit of healthcare advice from a man who I am genetically aligned with and who died at the age I will be next week.  Popping out of bed I head straight to the computer and type in the Search Bar “thistle tea”.   I hit “Enter”.

The old photo of me and my grandfather soaking our feet pops up.    

Ordered that tea on the spot and been drinking it ever since.   

Finally, as I sip my grandfather’s warm thistle tea,  which according to the internet is full of a powerful antioxidant called Silymarin that fights cancers of the gastrointestinal tract AND is endorsed by my Papa,  I leave you with a few quotes, two from Englishmen who know their tea, and one from an American who knows his rum.  

“I have lived more of my life than is to come.  How do I face this imponderable idea that one day I am not going to exist anymore?  I make art.  I tell stories.”

— Sting

“When youth departs may wisdom prove enough.”

— Winston Churchill 

“Life is a journey that’s not measured in miles or years, but in experiences.

But if there’s a heaven for me, I’m sure it has a beach attached.”

– Jimmy Buffett

Cheers!!!

The Tree…

An old rusty and broken saw was all I had.  But with the wet season in full force the Caribbean almond tree had grown too large.  Its ever expanding branches encroached mercilessly on our favorite flamboyant tree and blocked our view of the hillside and bays below us.  Would the stressed flamboyant tree be unable to blossom this year  and feed our hungry herd of iguanas?  No doubt.  The almond invader had to go. 

The Caribbean almond tree, Terminalia catappa, is unrelated to the tree that produces edible almonds.  It sprouts up anywhere on the island and grows quickly.  I had hoped it was a mango tree or a key lime tree which would soon bear us some delicious fruit.  But no luck.  

This tree had decided to live on a 45 degree slope surrounded by loose rocks near a bundle of thorny “catch and keep” bushes below our new deck.  Here you sometimes have to make do with what you have to meet the challenges of the day.  So, covered up with long pants and sleeves, and a mismatched pair of gloves which was all I could find, I popped on my Beach Bar cap and my Maui Jim sunglasses to protect my eyeballs.  I was ready for anything.  Armed with an extendable pruning saw with an incredibly dull and rusty blade, I eased into the jungle which is our backyard.  

The cool prevailing Caribbean breeze on our deck quickly gave way to the oppressive heat and humidity you would expect on land that had previously been a Danish cotton plantation.  Fortunately no snakes here for centuries because the French brought the mongoose who ate them all.  But there is the terrifyingly toxic manchineel  tree with its poisonous “death apples” that Christopher Columbus’s crew fatally discovered on his second voyage here in 1493.  And I don’t know what it looks like.  

Then there’s the stinging nettle plants whose long thorns are like hypodermic needles and inject histamine below your skin when you bump into them intensifying the painful burn.  Don’t touch anything unless you know what it is. 

And the Christmas bush, which is very common throughout the island contains urishiol, similar to poison ivy.  Contact with this plant causes burning, itching rashes and lesions that can spread if untreated.  Great. 

I am watching out for Jack Spaniard wasp nests.  No relation to Captain Jack Sparrow but still packs a sting that would make a pirate cry.  These wasps are very aggressive and will chase you down if you disturb their nest.  Each can sting you five times with their strong venom which is a major antigen that requires a specific antidote if you are allergic to them.  I’m pretty sure I’m not allergic.  

And finally there are those pesky Arnold Schwartznegger body building mosquitoes which here seem to fly easily even on the windiest of days. They rarely may carry Dengue, Zika or Chikungunya diseases.  Not today so they’re probably gone to workout. 

A twig snaps.  I hear a sound.  Probably an iguana.  A bird I don’t recognize flies by.  A bug buzzes my ear.  “Arnold” I mutter.  Workout must be over.  I swat at it.  I miss.  I slide further down the slope. 

And then, there it is.  The tree.  I engage it with the blade several times finally getting the right angle with my feet placed at sturdy positions.  Back and forth, over and over again I get a cut started.  Deeper into the trunk slowly but surely, like a butter knife through a pineapple, I make progress.  Just like my Dad taught me except he had a chain saw.  I slip several times.  Don’t grab anything.  Sweating profusely and breathless but past the point of no return I press on.  Just like my Mom, a legendary hard worker, taught me.  She picked cotton as a child laborer so she would love this.  My shoulders ache.  My nose is running.  Is it getting darker?  An unknown thorny vine has wrapped itself around my leg.  The blade falls off the handle.  I retrieve it and stomp it back together.  I should have bought a new saw I tell myself.  I try a different angle with the saw.  

Then through!  The tree cracks and creeps.  But does not fall.  It remains suspended in the air, its trunk held magically aloft by the branches of our friendly flamboyant tree and all the other forces working against me.  I rest a bit in disbelief.  

Plan B.  I grab the trunk with both hands. (I hope this is not a machineel tree.).  I lean all my considerable weight plus the added pounds from all those Painkillers I’ve been drinking this week onto the tree.  And we both start sliding down the slope.  The trees above me creak and crack.  The flamboyant lets go.  And the almond tree follows me down the slope.  Success.  

The next morning we are greeted by a much better view of the blues and greens of the Caribbean Sea, a very happy flamboyant tree who has sprouted a few new orange blossoms during the night and four busy green iguanas enjoying their new home.  

“Well done!” they seem to say.