Oct 13th, 2006
Chinese Medicine
When I was about five my parents must have realized that I was part Korean because they suddenly decided that I should start learning how to play the violin. After all, most virtuoso violinists started at a very young age, so if I was to ultimately become a concert violinist I would have to start young. I actually wasn’t terrible, although I still contend that the whole institution around learning how to play the violin could use a lot of work, but this isn’t a diatribe about the violin; it is about an experience I had when attending orchestra camp.
The Orchestra camp that I attended was located somewhere in the Shenandoah Valley, located between Virginia and West Virginia. Actually, it was probably one of the best things I could have done as an angst-filled insecure adolescent, because it was an opportunity to socialize in a completely new environment where I couldn’t possibly be branded as a nerd because we were all nerds - again, we are talking about orchestra camp.
At any rate, I recall one particular day when we had all taken a break from our nerdalizing and all headed to the field to play a game of soccer. There were actually quite a few decent athletes and we had ourselves a pretty good little game. Towards the end of the game, one of the players on the other team, Mark - a cellist with a trash ’stache - broke free in the open field and was promptly slide tackled from behind. Suddenly, the game stopped as everyone collectively realized that the cellist was writhing around the ground in agony, clutching his thigh.
“Ow, my thigh,” he whined, in a tone of voice unbefitting his manly trash ’stache.
Everyone gathered around while one of the camp counselors leaned over him and tended to him. It was then that I remembered that before I had left, my Uncle had given me a few packets of Icy Hot, a therapeutic gel, before I had left for camp.
“Hold on everyone,” I declared before running off to my room to get the Icy Hot.
I returned about five minutes later to find Mark limping away from the field, being helped by one of the camp counselors, with a small cadre of camp attendees in tow.
“Mark,” I said. “Try this Icy Hot my Uncle gave me.”
He took the packets and began examining them gingerly. He turned one over in his palm and examined the back carefully for several moments before looking me in the eye. His gaze was 25% gratitude and 75% trepidation when in all sincerity he asked, “This isn’t some sort of ancient Chinese medicine or something like that, is it?”
Shocked, I looked into his hands, at the packets labeled “Icy Hot,” and then looked him in the eye.
“Err…its Icy Hot,” I answered lamely.
He nodded, assured that I wasn’t attempting to poison him with some ancient Chinese poison, and then headed off on his merry way.
