Singleton remembers the bygone days of sally cloth home remedies

Homemade tallow used for home remedies.

(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Only mom could make the foulest cures with love” was originally published in the Nov. 14, 1991 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

The cold mornings of the past few days bring to mind days when people didn’t go see the family doctor for things such as a bad cold or the flu.

Seeing the doctor was unheard of unless there was something seriously wrong with one of the family. Colds, flu, measles, mumps and other minor illnesses were always handled by the mother of the family or someone in the neighborhood who was thought to have special powers when it came to mixing up evil-tasting potions or remedies for what ailed you.

I was not a sickly child growing up, but it seemed that I was sort of the family guinea pig when it came to home remedies. My older sisters saw to it that it was reported to my mother if I should sneeze or cough or do anything that might hint a bad cold coming on.

Then, either my mother or Aunt Lellia would apply the remedy. Nevertheless, I would always end up being greased from head to foot with some evil-smelling mixture or having to drink some foul-tasting tonic followed by a cup of scalding-hot turnip pot licker.

Those of you who have never had a sally cloth put on your chest are the more fortunate ones. The hot sally cloth was applied when all else had been used. The sally cloth was the final remedy before being put to bed for the night.

This large piece of flannel material was covered with such things as salves, hot liniments, a portion of homemade tallow, hot red pepper and a touch of coal oil. Then as the would be victim stood before the hot fire place, the order was given to raise the long flannel gown so the naked chest was bared.

The sally cloth with all its additives had been held before the roaring fire just prior to being placed on the naked chest. When the piece of heavy flannel became too hot to hold, it was placed across the chest of the victim.

The hot tallow and salves would cause the heavy flannel to stick to the chest and stomach like it had been covered with hot glue. First, the victim lost his breath; steam and hot air seemed to come from the ears, eyes and nose. Only a loud groan could be heard coming from the mouth.

It took several minutes to regain your senses; everything had gone numb. When the sally cloth touched the skin, it was there to stay until it cooled off. Then it had to be peeled off the chest and stomach like a heavy sticky tape of some sort. But the sally cloth would not be removed until the following morning.

With the application of the hot flannel cloth, orders were given to release the long night gown from where it was being held up under the chin. Good nights were said, even though no words were heard because of the steam that continued to spout forth from out of the ears after the placing of the hot sally cloth.

The victim was then marched off to bed and the heavy covers packed around. Orders were issued again not to turn – “lay flat on your back so you can breathe.”

By now, lungs and throat were so wide open it seemed as if someone had left open the gate to the North Pole. Cold air could be felt rushing into the lungs and chest, even without breathing.

But without realizing it, there among the evil smells of the sally cloth, the old sandman did his magic. The security of the heavy covers and the warmth of the long flannel gown had performed a miracle.

With the coming of the morning, the flannel cloth was removed. It seemed that the chest was made of screen wire. The cold morning air seemed to rush right through. It wasn’t over yet, though. There was more of the treatment to come.

Another foul-tasting mixture was brought forth, followed by the scalding-hot turnip pot licker. But strangely enough, the cough was gone. Even though the victim of the home remedy wouldn’t admit it, he felt better now. The only bad thing about getting to feel better was having to get dressed and catch that darn school bus.

Each evening, upon returning home from school, a close examination was conducted by either my mother or Aunt Lellia. For good measure, another dose of the foul-tasting tonic, followed by a cup of very hot turnip pot licker, was the order of the day. Before going to bed, salve was placed on the chest followed by a hot towel so as to help it dissolve into the skin.

But nothing lasts forever. One Saturday morning soon, if all went well, the weather would turn out a warm day. Then a small boy and his friend might just slip off and go swimming in the old swimming hole in the creek nearby.

Going swimming on a warm day during the months of December or January was all right, just so long as you didn’t get caught. But Aunt Lellia seemed to know everything; sometimes it seemed that she had eyes in the back of her head. My old sister said that Aunt Lellia could even read your mind.

She would certainly know that we had been swimming, and all heck would be to pay.

(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)