(Including the author's editorial comments, in boldface)Mr. Fred Burk of Strawberry Hill Farm was a person held in high esteem by all who knew him. His outgoing, amiable disposition, his willingness to respond immediately and without question if summoned to the aid of those less fortunate, and his ready wit, were happily attested to by family and friends alike. The source of such goodness was discussed, often and thoroughly, by his colleagues, and it was generally assumed, though not to say openly spoken of , that Mr. Burk’s consistent good health contributed in some measure to his equally steady, benevolent temperament.
It was indeed a certainty that, until the illness which claimed his life, Mr. Burk was , in fact, one of those fortunate individuals whose constitution, apart from the occasional sniffling sinus affliction, afforded him no cause for alarm, bestowed upon him some sense of pride, and provided no little occasion for laughter. His family members, used to his habits, knew well enough that he would dependably have need of that particular chamber in the Burk domicile, set aside for ablutions, at a certain hour each morning, and could attest well enough that if their own activities in that room, of which the residence laid claim to only one, required a longer interval than usual, Mr. Burk could soon enough be counted on to make his presence known at the other side of the door, tapping regularly and with increasing urgency, and exclaiming “Geez, could ya hurry up already? I’ve got a pain out here!” When one of the family hounds, lying sprawled upon the hearth as was their habit upon most evenings, would, due to some earlier dietary indiscretion , have recourse to a particularly noxious episode of flatulence, Mr. Burk had often been known to retaliate in kind, giggling evilly all the while.
To his only child, a daughter, Mr. Burk bequeathed , it was noted, not only his property, taxable at the current exchange rate at several thousand pounds per anum, but also his good health, his shock of thick hair, the gap between his front teeth, and his sense of humor, which with its mix of the outrageous and, at times, mildly scatological, was known as “ornery.”
One recent spring day, when in the throes of the urge to participate in that annual project of purging known as spring cleaning, this daughter of the family, known thoughout the township by that time as Doc Steph, realized with resignation that, as usual, simple projects often tended to explode into renovations of a more major scope, such fiascos generally being preceeded by either the phrase “this won’t take long” or the rhetorical query, “how hard could it be?” The thorough scrubbing of carpets throughout the house had led her down the inevitable path toward a similarly thorough scrubbing of the soot from those walls which came under the direct influence of the much loved yet equally maligned woodburning stove; windows of course then had of necessity been enthusiastically squeegeed, and at some point she found herself gazing with no little consternation at the woodwork, whose original shade of “Dover White” had, over the years, been deepend by the accumulation of smoke and ash into something closer to “Recently Deceased Gray.” This, she decided, would not do, and so after a jaunt into town to the nearest purveyor of a satisfactory paint – a jaunt, one might add, that was not in itself without humor – she settled in with her poor beleaguered husband of two years, who was learning rapidly not to ask “so, whadda ya wanna do this weekend?” to finish the herculean projects she casually and offhandedly lumped into the term “tidying up.”
Painting commenced and eventually, as it is wont to do, conversation dried up and the decision was made, with no objection on either side, to turn on the television. After scraping the proverbial bottom of the entertainment barrel, for this was a Saturday afternoon, the hardworking couple finally settled upon a tolerably interesting movie, The Jane Austen Book Club
(Ohhhhhhhhh….so NOW you see the connection!). At any rate, Doc Steph thought it might be tolerably interesting, while husband Keith deemed it wiser to keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately the movie choice was presented by a network which appeared to adhere to the policy that the longer the movie continued, the longer the commercial breaks should correspondingly become, and in this case there seemed to be an inordinate number of appearances by the famed cinema actress Jamie Lee Curtis, obviously bent on extending her already not insubstantial range of talents, and presumably her bank account, hawking a product known as Activia, by attempting to act as though she actually gave a rat’s posterior about some total stranger’s “occasional bouts of irregularity.”
The afternoon passed, and after this same commercial had been run at least 20 times, Doc Steph began, as advertising agents would obviously desire, to ponder the miracles of this highly touted substance. The script of the commercial, which she was by this time able to recite by heart, included the following phrase: “ Eat Activia every day for two weeks – if you don't feel the difference, we'll refund your money.” She was indeed blessed , as luck would have it, with her father’s healthy constitution, yet that she was of an inquiring, cynical turn of mind, she could not deny. “All right,” she announced to her husband and the dogs, “that does it. I’m curious – so I’m taking the Activia challenge” and for the next fourteen days she embarked on an experiment of daily ingestion of the substance and the ensuing scientific observation, taking diligent note of the results. Not content with this endeavor alone, she added the corollary, no small obstacle itself, that
she would attempt to write about the results in such a manner as to prove inoffensive , even to the vaunted Miss Austen herself. Or, as the said vaunted Miss Austen herself would put it, “without committing the crime of erring against every commonplace notion of decorum.” In short, she would refrain from cheapening herself and her research by, however humorous the result might be, scrupulously avoiding any slang words directly related to intestinal function including, but not limited to…the word “poo.”
Day one passed without incident, and Doc Steph went on about her business, wondering how exactly the yogurt snack she had ingested planned on manifesting itself. Analytically she took an inventory of her physical well being, between vaccinating patients that included poodles, shih tzus and the usual variety of mongrels and feline patients. Nothing different than what was normal and expected occurred upon that particular day.
Shortly after the dawning of the second day, on schedule as usual, Doc Steph retired to the chamber of the house that was now fondly referred to as “the library” because of the number of books stored there, as well as the pleasant seat, expecting essentially the same as the previous day’s results. It was, she surmised, rather early in the study to expect any changes in the outcome of the ongoing experiment. However, she was forced to admit that there was in that day a different feeling in the air, so, dedicated researcher that she was, she felt it was imperative in the name of science to observe the experiment’s results thus far. In short, like most human beings, she looked.
Upon reflection, it is human nature to gaze at what one produces. Artists survey their paintings, writers re-read their words, mothers gaze fondly at their children, persons afflicted with colds and catarrh and various seepages from the sinuses survey the contents of the Kleenex after a vigorous blowing as though looking for brain tissue, the secrets of the universe , or perhaps lost socks.
So, Dr. Steph looked. And was alarmed and amazed at the results. Had someone been there before her? she pondered. Had someone – her husband, a troop of boy scouts, the eight-horse hitch of Budweiser Clydesdales – forgotten to flush? She sincerely hoped it was so. It was a disconcerting moment indeed and she seriously considered abandoning the research project, though whether it was for concern over the state of her internal workings or the desire for the continued well-being of the residence's tempermental septic tank she could not at that point say.
As it happened, within the very week a stranger with the olive complexion of a person from foreign parts presented himself at the home’s front door and announced that he was an agent of the county, here for the required annual inspection of the farm’s septic “aerobic system.” Without further ado he disappeared in the direction of the apparatus and returned a short while later, a faint pallor lightening his Middle Eastern visage. “This system is due for maintenance later in the summer, “ he announced nervously, “but it is low on chlorine already. I suggest you have it serviced a little earlier than its scheduled date.” “I am not at all surprised,” Doc Steph replied drily.
Nonetheless she pressed on, and within a few days her normal biological rhythms prevailed with the exception of, as one might delicately put it, significant volume expansion. This continued until the afternoon of day nine when, after a hurriedly imbibed meal at a local fast food establishment, she became aware that the various legions of villi that made up the whole of her digestive tract were considering, and indeed loudly discussing , instigating a revolt. Fortunately it proved to be but a minor rebellion , but one which made her wonder, what part did the Activia play in quelling what might have been a major episode of crapulence
(yes, it is a word! (krap' yoo lens) n. sickness caused by excess in drinking or eating. )? Several extra jaunts to the “library” took care of the problem before she left on her way to retrieve her mother from a visit to the hairdresser’s, but, she wondered, had the Activia saved her from the need to streak across town in search of an alternative chamber, or kept her from finding herself stuck in traffic at an inopportune moment, thus resulting in the unhappy discovery that she was essentially up the alimentary canal without a paddle? Doc Steph was ready to sing the praises of the substance to friends and family alike.
It was then she discovered the fine print on the Activia website , wherein lurks the following statement:
“Scientifically shown to help with slow intestinal transit when eaten every day for two weeks as part of a balanced diet and healthy lifestyle.”“With?” she cried, “what is this ‘WITH slow’? I thought it said ‘TO slow’!” She shook her head in dismay and mentally begged forgiveness for what she had regarded as insurgence on the part of her digestive tract but what may have been, in reality, its attempt to save her from the predations of that bacteria known as Bifidus regularis which the manufacturers of Activia claim populates its product.
As the two weeks of the experiment drew to a close, Doc Steph pondered what she might try next. An ad on the back of a national magazine that often finds its way to the “library” touted a fiber-containing supplement with the admonition “DO MORE than one thing and do them WELL,” but she reckoned that doing one thing a day was completely sufficient for her, and felt that Miss Austen would probably agree.
Author’s note: Doc Steph admits that while she likes Jane Austen’s stories, she finds Jane’s writing style a bit too loquacious for her own taste, if you can believe that. However she enjoys the adaptations to film, particularly Sense and Sensibility due in large part to the presence of the delicious Alan Rickman; in her humble opinion a close second is the Masterpiece Series version of Pride and Prejudice. Colin Firth – what’s not to like??)
