In fact, our rejuvenating soothing salve is mentioned in this 1873 letter to great great aunt Myrtle Mickelberry from her wayward husband, Dechlan. The letter was recently discovered in an heirloom Mickelberry trunk…or it was possibly written by a clever employee last week. Who can say?
My Dearest Myrtle,
It has dawned upon me that some time has passed since I expressed to you my love undying. A love as solid and lush as the Oregon pine. A love that inspires a man to put pen to paper and reflect on all the love we’ve lived. I look at my hands, wishing yours were in them. I study them, as if, for the first time. How every crack and line, every scar, tells the tale of our life together. How these hands of gnarled burl fell the timber that would become our home. A home these calloused hands built with hammer and stud.
Hands that currently find themselves shackled in the belly of a trading ship apparently short on crewmen. “To Ceylon for spice!” the captain hollers, I think. Tamil was never my strong suit.
And I know what you’re thinking. That I was down in the Portland dockyards for the purposes of carousing and gambling. Well, I will have you know nothing could be further from the truth. I was down in the dockyards for the purposes of supplying your soothing salve to the longshoremen who most sorely need it. Your enchanting blend of locally-sourced organic calendula, lavender, red cedar, and rosemary soothes the spirit, while shea butter, olive oil, and beeswax soften the skin. And you’ll be heartened to know I sold the entire lot, lest one tin I saved for myself.
Now, did carousing and gambling follow thereafter? Yes, almost immediately, but in celebration of our good fortune. Had I known it was all a ruse to lull me into a false sense of security that left me unconscious and off to South Asia, surely I would have folded sooner than I did, but you should have seen these cards, Myrtle. I couldn’t lose! And you never leave the table during a hot streak. Your hornswoggling mother taught me that. Of course, every time I play games of chance with your mother I end up incapacitated and hog-tied. Remember our honeymoon? That was an awkward weekend.
By jove, our honeymoon! When your mother clocked me with the oil lamp and chained me up in the abandoned root cellar. I was able to slip free of the manacles by applying a healthy dose of your soothing salve to each hand. Through a starboard porthole, as luck would have it, I spy another vessel draw nigh. If I can just make it topside, I can jump ship and swim for it. All that stands in my way is a peculiar-looking little man in a tri-corner hat guarding the door. Wish me godspeed, my love. Pray my pen finds this parchment once more.
T'is with renewed vigor that I write to you, my sweetest Myrtle. The good news is, I’m alive. I slipped my ironclad cuffs and escaped my captors. Good fortune saw to it that the nearby ship that plucked me from the briney hails from Astoria. They’ve even promised to return me to you just as soon as their fishing expedition is complete, which brings me to the bad news.
When I asked them what the catch of the day was, they ominously replied, “the deadliest.” So I assumed we’re going after kraken or man-eating whales, but it turns out to just be king crab. Apparently there’s quite an air of drama in the hyper-masculine world of commercial fishing. It’s a fortnight to our destination off the coast of the Klondike. Hopefully that’ll afford my wounds time to heal before I test my might and mettle against the icy relentlessness of the north Pacific.
Now, before you go all hysterical, I assure you I’m on the mend. T’is merely a flesh wound and my pride prohibits me from going into any further detail. Long story short, I was shot in the posterior by a Deringer-wielding capuchin monkey in a tri-corner hat, but fret not. The wound is superficial and the crabbing crew’s medic/cook/barber was able to remove the pea-sized round and packed the hole with a healthy dose of your soothing salve. B. T. Dubs, everyone onboard can’t stop raving about it. You’re a healer Myrtle Mickelberry. Your magical amalgam, your pioneer palm balm, provides succor to all in need. I cannot wait to see what healing elixirs you come up with from herb and hive.
You’ll have plenty of time to focus on that, because I won’t be back for 3 months, and that's best case scenario, but when I do we’re going to have a crab boil that’ll be the talk of the town and the envy of our neighbors. Speaking of neighbors, the cacophony coming from the adjoining homestead is aggravating the bees and having an overall negative effect on the health of their hives.
Alright, Myrtie. The laudnum’s kicking in. Hold down the fort until I return and know that I love you.
Yours forever and always,
And there you have it. The fantastical, totally-true-definitely-not-made-up origin of our Mickelberry Garden’s Soothing Salve. We’ve updated and refined the formula, making it even more effective by adding plantain, St John’s Wort, and vitamin E, but at heart, its roots are as old as Oregon. Try some yourself. You’ll be amazed at all the uses it has.
And for reading this far we want to give you a coupon code for an additional 10% off our Soothing Salve. Just enter: “MYRTLESGIFT” at check out to receive your reader’s reward.
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