Aged and mellowed, golden whiskey in a wide mouth Mason jar.
Poured over sweet rock candy, was the guaranteed cure,
of ticklish throats; sprained ankles; hair loss; hang nails and more.
Always kept on hand, for times of desperate need,
of which Grandpa had a profound proclivity for.
No glass nor tablespoon was needed to dispense this elixir.
Just twist the ring, pop the lid, up end the jar and let it slide
down your parched throat..ummm, I mean, soar throat.
I remember well, my first bout with laryngitis at the age of seven.
Grandpa hurried off, to get the magical jar of homemade "Cure".
Minutes later, he came in, carrying the jar like a precious jewel.
Pouring some of that honey hued nectar into a large serving spoon.
Tasting it first, making sure it hadn't gone bad, of course.
Then he slipped the spoon edge between my lips.
Boy-howdy, my eyes watered, I coughed for a spell.
Then slept like a baby.