Memories of Bygone Winters
I wrote this over twenty something years ago, perhaps even thirty. It is part of tales I wrote about our family as a birthday gift I had presented my father then.
When I was a child, I used to get sick often in winter. I suffered from earaches, sore throats, and high temperature. Invariably the doctor would come. He would take my pulse and stick the thermometer under my tongue. He would ask me to open my mouth wide and say ‘aaah!’ He would peer down my throat then he would frown slightly as he scribbled out a prescription. Nine times out of ten, he would prescribe a dose of penicillin injections. I dreaded those.
Then Dr. Solomon, who was Papa’s friend, would retire with my parents to the salon. Maryam, our maid, would serve tea and cakes. If the good doctor was not too busy, they would sit and chat companionably for a while. If he was busy, Mama would send Maryam, with the prescription, to summon the neighbourhood pharmacist to come give me an injection. I remember it was never one injection. It would be a series of three; one each day for three days. How I hated them!
The pharmacist would come with his little black leather bag. He would open his bag and first take out a small bunsen burner which he lit. Next a metal container would appear. He would ask for some water to pour into the container. He placed that over fire. When the water boiled, he would drop a long sharp needle into the container with his latex-gloved hands. At that point, I can still remember how my heart began to thump hard with fear. My eyes would grow round with dread. I would hold my breath and pray for a miracle in order not to receive the shot. But, it was inevitable. The pharmacist brought out the rest of the contraption, withdrew the needle from the boiling water and attached them together. He would then stick the needle into a small glass vial and suck the medication into the ampoule. He would push the lever slightly until a bit of medication squirted out. During this performance, I would be lying on my tummy with my little rump bare, awaiting the onslaught of the needle. The pharmacist would bend down over me and vigorously rub my bottom with an alcohol-drenched swab. I tensed and shut my eyes tightly. I held my breath. The needle pierced my poor bottom. Tears pooled out of my eyes, in spite of them being tightly shut. Finally, I drew an easy breath. It was over for that day.
If my temperature was not too high, I would surround myself with my books and paper dolls. Maryam would serve me endless glasses of freshly squeezed sweet lemon juice or orange juice. I would contentedly cut out dresses for my paper dolls and dress them. Perhaps I would escape into an enchanted world that came alive from one of the books that I read. In my memory, outside my window, the snow always fell. My bed would become my cocoon, soft and luxurious, a place where my imagination would take me wherever I wished to go. To this day, I sometimes like to play sick. On that day, preferably a cold and snowy one, I lie in bed with large fluffy pillows against the headboard. I rest my back against them. I listen to my classical music, my book perched against my knees and my hot mug of coffee cupped in my hands. I would wear one of my long thick and warm flannel nightgowns and dab myself with damask rose perfume. How heavenly it all is…
If we weren’t really sick, Papa’s favorite cold medicine would appear. It was one that absolutely made me gag. If he suspected a cold coming up, out came his bottle of Courvoisier cognac just before bedtime. He would watch us like a hawk as we swallowed a thimbleful of that dreaded liquid. I would close my eyes tight, grimace, and swallow. The liquid went down as if I had swallowed fire, all the way down to my stomach. To this day, I mentally squirm when offered cognac. It is a great way to make sure your child would have an aversion to alcohol!
Mama’s method was different. When one of us was sick, she would order the cook to make pigeon soup. She claimed it would bring down the temperature. I would be very unhappy with that! It bothered me deeply that a poor innocent pigeon should die just because one of us had a cold! The poor innocent pigeon! Sometimes, if it was one of my siblings who had a cold, I would accompany the maid to the poultry store. She would eye the pigeons critically. She would lift the trembling creatures and squeeze them to see if they had a layer of fat. If they did, they would be tender and juicy when cooked. Finally, she would choose the one doomed to die. Oh, how pitiful it looked! Oh, how my heart ached for it! But die it did. We had to have the soup that was made from it. Mama said so. Around the dining table, we sat as Mama served us. I felt my throat tighten. I pushed my soup bowl away and said, ‘I’m not hungry.’ I preferred shorba. That is a luscious chicken soup thick with rice, tomatoes, carrots, and peas, flavoured with cardamom. Best of all, it had no pigeons floating in it. I did not see the chicken being slaughtered. I did not hear it desperately squawking as she went into her death throes. I shuddered as I looked at the soup tureen. I mentally heard the poor fowl plead for its life. No, I just could not have that soup. It was immoral!
Sundays in Iran were just ordinary days. Fridays are the Muslim sabbath. Since we went to an American school, we had no school on Fridays and Sundays. Early Sunday mornings, in winter, we used to go to the hamam, the public baths. In those days, no one had central heating. Our homes were heated with kerosene-fueled pot-bellied stoves. Each room was equipped with one. A man would come each morning to fill all the stoves. The water for the bathrooms was cold because the water had to be heated with lumber. It was labour-intensive and complicated. Every day water was heated for us to strip bathe. It was so much easier to go to the local hamam for our weekly bath. Thus, each Sunday morning, after breakfast, Maryam would prepare our bath paraphernalia in the bag specifically designated for that purpose. Then she would escort us, the three little girls, there. At the hamam she would hand us over to Khanom Begum. Khanom Begum always bathed us. She had done so for years. First Maryam would carefully inspect the two chambers we would be using, to make sure they were squeaky clean, then she would order that everything be rinsed with hot water and permanganate. Once she was satisfied, she would undress us in the adjacent dressing room and lead us to the steamy room, the hamam. She would leave us snacks like pomegranates, oranges, and apples. Pomegranates were my favourite. Standing in the white-tiled room with the shower head positioned overhead on the ceiling and a drain in the floor, I would bite a small hole in the pomegranate, squeeze gently and suck the delicious juice into my mouth. Some juice would run down my body, but that was alright because it would only stain my skin. Khanom Begum would first let us steam until our skin turned wrinkled and prune like. Then one by one she would make us lie down on the white tiled bed like platform. She would scrub our bodies with a woolen sack back and forth, back and forth, removing wormlike dry skin from our bodies. Over and over she exfoliated us until she was sure there was no more dead skin to peel off. Then she washed our hair until it was squeaky clean. Once she was satisfied, she would apply soap to the loofah and scrub us vigorously one more time. By the time she was done, we were all pink and glowing. We felt as if a ton of weight had been removed from our bodies.
Four hours would have passed since Maryam handed us to Khanom Begum. Maryam returned just in time to wrap us up with thick white towels, energetically rub us dry. We were bundled up warmly. We looked like round teddy bears covered in layers of warm clothing as we were herded back home.
Meanwhile, the cook had prepared our midday meal. If it was very cold and snowy, she would make Kufteh Tabrizi. How I loved that dish! I still do. It was a huge meatball, in the center of which she would put treats such as hard-boiled eggs and walnuts, currants and fried onions, prunes and a baby chick. The ground meat would be mixed with lentils and chopped fresh herbs. It was absolutely scrumptious. As we entered our home, the aroma of the delicious food would wrap around us in a welcoming greeting. Our little tummies growled. We were famished! We entered the dining room. The potbelly stoves had warmed the house after having been aired in the morning. Mama and Papa waited for us to eat. We would gather around the dining table. Steaming hot tureens of the broth and kufteh would be placed in front of Mama. From the next room, we could hear Papa’s ever-present classical music. Mama would serve each of us. We would lift our spoons eagerly to our mouths and sip, for we were truly famished.
As l look back to those precious days, I see all of us sitting around the dining table in a soft haze of sweet memory. I smile to myself at the passage of time. Time has passed, but in my mind those days have stayed intact…