Editha Bartley’s stories always jerk great memories back to the present for a timeless moment. When we cut our fingers trying to whittle a forked stick into a sling shot, Mom dabbed the injury with iodine or silver nitrate after kissing it. Or Grandpa would suck some white gas out of his four-door Studebaker convertible and slosh that on the wound hoping to prevent lock jaw. No Band-aids at our farm, which was two points east by south of Shangri-la.
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