We were out at the Swimming Hole one afternoon, and I sent four-year-old Sean Robert Irwin (“Sir”) to get us both a coke.

That’s not necessarily a Coca Cola, all Southerners know that; there were several brands of soft drinks on ice in the cooler under the picnic table. Once when a fellow choir member not from Down Heah asked for a “pop,” Duh-Wayne replied with, “Boy, if you get to heaven and ask for a pop, God’s gonna tell you, ‘I’m gonna pop you one upside the head if you don’t ask for a coke when you want one!’”

Sir extracted a couple of canned drinks, but when he went to open his, he cut his thumb slightly. He took it like a man, jamming the bleeding digit into his mouth while handing the coke to his Grunk (“Granddaddy Uncle Bob”) to finish opening, which I did without further injury.

Then I examined his thumb, which was not in need of stitches, and stuck it under the hydrant for further cleansing.

“When we go back to the house, we’ll put some medicine on it,” I offered.

“What kind?” Sir wanted to know.

“Oh, probably some of that Triple Antibiotic Ointment, then a Band-Aid.”

Sir sighed patiently, which a youngster is constantly doing when dealing with the elder generation.

“No, Grunk, it’s got to be Automatic Boo-Boo Killing Creme,” he corrected.  That’s a brand I had not run across.

“You mean ‘Antibiotic,’ don’t you?” I chuckled.

I was trying his patience: “No. Automatic Boo-Boo Killing Creme.”

I’m slow to learn, when lessons involve pain.  “Antibiotic Boo-Boo What?”

It’s not easy dealing with a retarded Grunk, obviously.

The kid spelled it out in a ‘Read my lips’ tone of voice: “No! Automatic Boo-Boo Killing Creme.”

When we did go back in, I wrote it down just in case, since his grandmother Doots had not stocked the medicine cabinet with the correct medicine.

After Sir had gone home that day, I asked his Mom, who is in the health profession herownself, if she had such a product in her cabinet or bag. She had never heard of it, and went to ask Sir, who told her it only exists at Grunk and Doots’ house. He repeated it for her: “Automatic Boo-Boo Killing Creme.”

I never heard them called that until I had kids myownself, but I am a self-proclaimed expert on Boo-Boos and their treatment. In my early years, there was a purple medicine called Gentian Violet, which took weeks to wear off after application to a wound.

In a pasture baseball game with the Barefoot Dodgers, I smacked a triple into right field, but made the mistake of glancing over my shoulder as I passed second base. The cow who laid second had done so on a board with a rusty six-inch nail sticking up, and I centered that sucker.

Old Dr. Witte took one look at the wound and the amount of second base it had absorbed, and told Big Robert, “Hold him down.”

I was allergic to novocaine, which was the hospital painkiller of choice back then, so I’ve probably had 30+ stitches without benefit of deadening, and second-base-removal from nail holes was included. He ran that Violet-coated swab up into my foot until it quit coming out brown, then the cotton pulled off in the hole on the last try. I passed out when he went after it.

Iodine succeeded Gentian Violet, and was much more painful when liberally applied, plus the stain remained just as long. Once when Troy was attacked by a mad sow (we were chasing her piggies) and had his foot opened up by her tusk, Alton advised me, “Sit on him and hold him down,” while he washed out the wound with Iodine, then stitched it up with – safety pins, really!

All three of us knew that if our daddies found out that we were chasing piggies, we’d be in for severe whippings. Troy’s split foot healed back very well, actually, and he forgave his big brother and me begrudgingly, when he quit limping.

Now a new generation has its own painkiller: Automatic Boo-Boo Killing Creme! Be sure your own medicine cabinet is correctly stocked.