50ABOUT A WHOLE BUNCH OF STUFFScotch Whisky Surgery
(With No Hiccups)
By Bessie WilsonB
ack in my day, there was
often an urgent farm
happening where some
items in the medicine cabinet
would not work and the doctor
lived a good distance away.
Mother’s uncle had a cousin
who was attacked by a wildcat. The
cat had torn part of Jack’s scalp
back in the middle of the night.
Jack was rudely awakened by
the animals in the barn one clear
moonlit night in the fall. The loud
fuss finally got him out of bed and
he hurried into his overalls, coat
and boots. He started out for the
barn and was almost there when
something came out of nowhere
and knocked him down.
His wife, Annie, wasn’t far
behind, but the damage was
already done—with not one sign
of what Jack had encountered.
Annie found him on the ground,
bleeding profusely from his
head. She ran into the barn and
grabbed an old wool horse blanket
to cover him, and then returned
to the house to call mother’s
uncle. Thank goodness Ma Bell
was there for her that night, as
the phones were just installed in
Medonte Township.
It didn’t take the uncle long
to arrive, nor did it take much
time for word to spread to the
neighbours, including my father,
that night. Without jolting Jack,
the men got him onto the horse
blanket and carried him inside.
Jack was placed beside the wood
range, where Uncle started the
surgery. He had worked for a
doctor once up in the Soo and had
kept his eyes open as to how to
apply and repair with cat gut. He
always kept it in his old leather
bag. He washed the wound out
with Scotch whisky and sewed it
up. No infection and not much of a
scar! Uncle returned regularly and
tended to the wound for several
weeks, treating it with a paste of
plantain, comfrey and beeswax.
My mother noticed that this
horrific event had a significant
impact on Jack’s personality. He
would always look for tracks in the
snow from then on, before he went
to the barn. If he saw a familiar