Wednesday, February 15, 2017


My Man Has a Cold


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Helena Smrcek
The winter months brought a break in our farm routines, and a vacation. Warmth, sand and sea, I felt simply spoiled. 

But two nights before we were scheduled to head back home I sneezed. I took antihistamine and went to bed. 
At breakfast the sneezing returned.

The flight home was a little trying. I popped a gum in my mouth and tried to cope with the ear ache. Who gets a cold in Mexico?

Next day I dragged myself out of bed, went to the barn, milked the goat, fed the chickens, unpacked, sorted the laundry, checked the fridge. After I dropped our daughter off at her school, I got groceries, then switched the laundry, made cheese, shoved another load into the washing machine, figured out dinner, and wished someone would blow the gloomy fog away, or at least make me a tea. 

Following morning my darling husband turned over and complained he didn’t sleep. While I set a cup of coffee in front of him, he wore a sheepish grin, then proceeded to play a recording of me—snoring.

With a triumphant glee, he turned up the volume so neither of our kids accidentally missed his clandestine achievement. I was ready to snatch the eggs and bacon, his sick and snoring wife made him, and feed his breakfast to the dogs. 

Next morning, he woke me up with a simple statement. I made him sick.

I could take it no longer. Not only I was sick for five days, and he didn’t even offer to make me tea, but instead secretly recorded me, as if he worked for the CIA, and now accused me of causing his illness? What was his problem? I got up and went to the kitchen to make me some java. 

A few moment later he joined me, and asked in a weak voice if I could make him a tea, and did I have anything he could take.

He sighed heavily. He had a headache. Where did I put the Advil? Kleenex box? Thermometer? Something for his sinuses?

I point to the HydraSense, not ready to talk. He asked how to use it. I explained in as few words as possible. My husband, who seemed to have landed from Mars only a few short minutes ago, proceeded to press the tip and sprayed the Eucalyptus all over the counter.

When I protest, he moved the operation to the sofa and started to administer his medicine. Of course he sprayed himself in the eye. I couldn't help but laugh. He froze, then joined me, tearing up, due to the burning liquid. 

To make him feel better I admitted his cold is truly much worse than mine. I filled the teapot, stirred in some honey, and grabbed his mug. He thanked me, and asked if I could make him chicken soup.

I recalled the short video explaining man-cold that landed on my Face Book page a few months ago, and suddenly I felt lonely no more. There is a sisterhood out there, that understands me.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gLj7fj-3L78
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The Power of Story

My grandparents allowed me to live in a world of stories. I grew up immersed in their unconditional love, limitless patience, and storytelling.

Oblivious to the perils of our subdued nation, I climbed trees, talked to chickens, and wore dress up clothes. My days entailed brave explorations, hands-on learning, and an occasional scraped knee.

However, the most special moments arrived with twilight. Grandpa would sit in his wing chair, cat purring on his lap, and Grandma and I would snuggle up on the sofa. This was story time.

Through the power of story, I was transported past the boundaries of time and space. On my journeys, I met the most interesting characters, experienced tragedies, and comedies of ordinary life, and understood my roots.

Since then, I traveled through many winding paths. Guided by wise mentors, learning from the best storytellers of our time, I spent countless hours developing my craft. I love the power of story. For a good story possesses the ability to captivate us, entertain us, and give us hope, but the best stories hold power to change our lives.