A Baby in Every Bottle

… Mrs. Jones she had no children,

And she loved them very dear.

She took three bottles of Pinkham’s,

Now she has twins every year…

I WAS HAVING ONE OF MY TWICE-WEEKLY phone conversations with my Mama the other night when she shared with me a story of near-miraculous science and marriage from nearly six decades ago.

Ever since the day she exchanged wedding vows with my Dad back in December 1949, she wanted children. Not in just a few years after they had settled into marital bliss or when things were more established. No, sir – she wanted to be a mother from the day things their marriage became legal and proper and with the appropriate paperwork in place.

My old man was a bit more reserved for such wishes and obviously willing to put off such plans as long as possible. I suspect his desire was fueled by the fact he was the oldest of 12 siblings in a family scrambling to survive during the Great Depression. Mom had other plans.

“Son, I have to admit I was jealous of my friends and your Dad’s sisters having babies,” she told me. “I had my heart set on it and that was that. I spent a lot of time crying and worrying over it.”

Never doubt the ambitions and the dreams of a young wife. She sought the best medical advice of the day.

My grandfather, Norman Alister Henry. Now, Grandpa was no reproductive specialist nor a graduate of any medical school – though he did con the feds into believing he had formal medical training and landed a job giving physicals to military recruits as the country geared up for World War II.

Norman’s specialized training was in carving grave headstones and monuments for a family business in Marion, Ky., a destiny he rejected at a young age to go into the far more morbid world of newspapering. This educated and well-read fellow was sort of a Renaissance Man of his time for various and sundry reasons. Far too many to relate here.

So, Mom took her grieving heart to my Grandpa. And like all good fathers, he had a swift and logical solution. He suggested she take a remarkable medication to help her realize her dreams.

“Girl, you got to get yourself Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Tonic. There’s a baby in every bottle! he promised, echoing age-old testimonials.

Indeed, this was a tonic that had been around since the 1880s, a home-brewed medicine and answer to all “female complaints.” Everything from menstrual pain, to inexplicable moodiness, to menopause. What made it especially attractive to women is that it helped them avoid speaking to male doctors about their ailments.

And like all good daughters, Mom heeded Norman’s advice. In October 1953, my older brother was conceived.

It’s important to understand that Miss Pinkham’s popularity had waned and its use largely controlled at the time by the 1906 Pure Food and Drug Act. Its claims and use were severely restricted. Sure, the tonic contained some good elements. And it also packed a whopping 20 percent alcohol content before the watchdogs clamped down on Lydia and others hyping their goods.

I guess it wouldn’t be the first time – nor will it ever be – that alcohol has not played a role in some pregnancies, eh? Budweiser and Jager bombs surely have propelled the birth rate in more modern times.

“I was sooooooo happy!” my Mom recalled, chuckling over the phone, “and if your brother had been born a girl, there’s a good chance he would have been named Lydia.”

But he wasn’t a she. And Mom and Dad opted for a more appropriate name for their first born son.

A couple of years later, I arrived screaming on the scene in a Detroit hospital. In 1964, my dear young sister made her appearance at the former Welborn Hospital in Evansville.I doubt the tonic was needed in our cases; thus, sparing both of us a potentially goofy first name.

By then, my Mom probably had the process figured out. Surely, my Dad had.