To Your Good Health
By Paul G. Donohue, M.D.
Some New
Thoughts on Constipation
DEAR DR. DONOHUE:
I have a problem with chronic constipation. I
drink approximately six to eight glasses of iced
tea every day. Could the tannin in tea contribute
to my constipation? I don’t particularly
enjoy plain water, so I drink tea for my fluid
intake. -- M.C.
ANSWER: Tea
isn’t constipating you, and you can use it
for your fluid intake.
Constipation is
having fewer than three stools a week or having
stools that are hard and difficult to pass
without straining.
Some new thoughts
on constipation and laxatives fly in the face of
what we’ve been taught. One is that an
increased amount of fluid is necessary for
regularity. That advice has never been proved.
People should drink enough fluid to keep
themselves hydrated, and thirst can be their
guide in most cases -- perhaps not for the very
old. The intestinal tract regulates how much
fluid gets into it.
Fiber works as a
constipation cure for some, but not all.
Twenty-five to 30 grams (30 grams is 1 ounce) is
recommended daily. Fiber is indigestible material
in foods. Fruits, vegetables and whole grains
have the most. Bran, available in health-food
stores, is another good fiber source if you
can’t get enough in food.
We learned that
most laxatives should be used sparingly in order
not to develop a "laxative habit." This
is another piece of advice that has been
challenged. Many authorities now say it’s a
myth, that the colon doesn’t become
dependent on laxatives.
OLD GORGON
GRAHAM
More Letters from
a Self-Made
Merchant
to His Son
by George Horace Lorimer
First Published 1903
From John
Graham, head of the house of Graham &
Company, pork packers, in Chicago, familiarly
known on ‘Change as Old Gorgon Graham, to
his son, Pierrepont, at the Union Stock Yards.
No. 2
From John Graham, at the Schweitzerkasenhof,
Carlsbad, to his son, Pierrepont, at the Union
Stock Yards, Chicago. The head of the lard
department has died suddenly, and Pierrepont has
suggested to the old man that there is a silver
lining to that cloud of sorrow.
II
CARLSBAD, October
20, 189-.
Dear Pierrepont:
I’ve cabled the house that you will manage
the lard department, or try to, until I get back;
but beyond that I can’t see. Four weeks
doesn’t give you much time to prove that you
are the best man in the shop for the place, but
it gives you enough to prove that you ain’t.
You’ve got plenty of rope. If you know how
to use it you can throw your steer and brand it;
if you don’t, I suppose I won’t find
much more than a grease-spot where the lard
department was, when I get back to the office.
I’m hopeful, but I’m a good deal like
the old deacon back in Missouri who thought that
games of chance were sinful, and so only bet on
sure things--and I’m not betting.
Naturally, when a
young fellow steps up into a big position, it
breeds jealousy among those whom he’s left
behind and uneasiness among those to whom
he’s pulled himself up. Between them
he’s likely to be subjected to a lot of
petty annoyances. But he’s in the fix of a
dog with fleas who’s chasing a rabbit--if he
stops to snap at the tickling on his tail,
he’s going to lose his game dinner.
Even as temporary
head of the lard department you’re something
of a pup, and where there’s dog there’s
fleas. You’ve simply got to get used to
them, and have sense enough to know that
they’re not eating you up when they’re
only nibbling a little at your hide. And you
don’t want to let any one see that a
flea-bite can worry you, either. A pup
that’s squirming and wriggling and nosing
around the seat of the trouble whenever one of
his little friends gets busy, is kicked out into
the cold, sad night in the end. But a wise dog
lies before the fire with a droop in his ear and
a dreamy look in his eyes until it gets to the
point where he can’t stand ‘em any
longer. Then he sneaks off under the dining-room
table and rolls them out into the carpet.
There are two
breeds of little things in business--those that
you can’t afford to miss and those that you
can’t afford to notice. The first are the
details of your own work and those of the men
under you. The second are the little tricks and
traps that the envious set around you. A trick is
always so low that a high-stepper can walk right
over it.
When a fellow
comes from the outside to an important position
with a house he generally gets a breathing-space
while the old men spar around taking his measure
and seeing if he sizes up to his job. They give
him the benefit of the doubt, and if he shows up
strong and shifty on his feet they’re apt to
let him alone. But there isn’t any doubt in
your case; everybody’s got you sized up, or
thinks he has, and those who’ve been over
you will find it hard to accept you as an equal,
and those who’ve been your equals will be
slow to regard you as a superior. When
you’ve been Bill to a man, it comes awkward
for him to call you mister. He may do it to your
face, but you’re always Bill again when
you’ve turned the corner.
Of course,
everybody’s going to say you’re an
accident. Prove it. Show that you’re a
regular head-on collision when anything gets in
your way. They’re going to say that
you’ve got a pull. Prove it--by taking up
all the slack that they give you. Back away from
controversy, but stand up stubborn as a mule to
the fellow who’s hunting trouble. I believe
in ruling by love, all right, but it’s been
my experience that there are a lot of people in
the world whom you’ve got to make understand
that you’re ready to heave a brick if they
don’t come when you call them. These men
mistake kindness for weakness and courtesy for
cowardice. Of course, it’s the exception
when a fellow of this breed can really hurt you,
but the exception is the thing that you always
want to keep your eye skinned for in business.
When it’s good growing weather and the
average of the crop is ninety-five, you should
remember that old Satan may be down in Arizona
cooking up a sizzler for the cornbelt; or that
off Cuba-ways, where things get excited easy,
something special in the line of tornadoes may be
ghost-dancing and making ready to come North to
bust you into bits, if it catches you too far
away from the cyclone cellar. When a boy’s
face shines with soap, look behind his ears.
Up to this point
you’ve been seeing business from the seat of
the man who takes orders; now you’re going
to find out what sort of a snap the fellow who
gives them has. You’re not even exchanging
one set of worries for another, because a good
boss has to carry all his own and to share those
of his men. He must see without spying; he must
hear without sneaking; he must know without
asking. It takes a pretty good guesser to be a
boss.
The first
banana-skin which a lot of fellows step on when
they’re put over other men is a desire to be
too popular. Of course, it’s a nice thing to
have everyone stand up and cheer when your name
is mentioned, but it’s mighty seldom that
that happens to any one till he’s dead. You
can buy a certain sort of popularity anywhere
with soft soap and favors; but you can’t buy
respect with anything but justice, and
that’s the only popularity worth having.
You’ll find
that this world is so small, and that most men in
it think they’re so big, that you can’t
step out in any direction without treading on
somebody’s corns, but unless you keep
moving, the fellow who’s in a hurry to get
somewhere is going to fetch up on your bunion.
Some men are going to dislike you because
you’re smooth, and others because you have a
brutal way of telling the truth. You’re
going to repel some because they think
you’re cold, and others will cross the
street when they see you coming because they
think you slop over. One fellow won’t like
you because you’ve got curly hair, and
another will size you up as a stiff because
you’re bald. Whatever line of conduct you
adopt you’re bound to make some enemies, but
so long as there’s a choice I want you to
make yours by being straightforward and just.
You’ll have the satisfaction of knowing that
every enemy you make by doing the square thing is
a rascal at heart. Don’t fear too much the
enemy you make by saying No, nor trust too much
the friend you make by saying Yes.
Speaking of being
popular naturally calls to mind the case of a
fellow from the North named Binder, who moved to
our town when I was a boy, and allowed that he
was going into the undertaking business. Absalom
Magoffin, who had had all the post-mortem trade
of the town for forty years, was a queer old
cuss, and he had some mighty aggravating ways.
Never wanted to talk anything but business. Would
buttonhole you on the street, and allow that,
while he wasn’t a doctor, he had had to
cover up a good many of the doctor’s
mistakes in his time, and he didn’t just
like your symptoms. Said your looks reminded him
of Bill Shorter, who’ went off sudden in the
fifties, and was buried by the Masons with a
brass band. Asked if you remembered Bill, and
that peculiar pasty look about his skin.
Naturally, this sort of thing didn’t make Ab
any too popular, and so Binder got a pretty warm
welcome when he struck town.
He started right
out by saying that he didn’t see any good
reason why an undertaker should act as if he was
the next of kin. Was always stopping people on
the streets to tell them the latest, and yelling
out the point in a horse-laugh. Everybody allowed
that jolly old Binder had the right idea; and
that Magoffin might as well shut up shop. Every
one in town wanted to see him officiate at a
funeral, and there was a lot of talk about
encouraging new enterprises, but it didn’t
come to anything. No one appeared to have any
public spirit.
Seemed as if
we’d never had a healthier spring than that
one. The most unpopular man in town, Miser
Dosher, came down with pneumonia in December, and
every one went around saying how sad it was that
there was no hope, and watching for Binder to
start for the house. But in the end Dosher
rallied and "went back on the town," as
Si Perkins put it. Then the Hoskins-Bustard
crowds took a crack at each other one court day,
but it was mighty poor shooting. Ham Hoskins did
get a few buckshot in his leg, and that had to
come off, but there were no complications.
By this time
Binder, though he still laughed and cracked his
jokes, was beginning to get sort of discouraged.
But Si Perkins used to go round and cheer him up
by telling him that it was bound to come his way
in the end, and that when it did come it would
come with a rush.
Then, all of a
sudden, something happened--yellow jack dropped
in from down New Orleans way, and half the people
in town had it inside a week and the other half
were so blamed scared that they thought they had
it. But through it all Binder never once lost his
merry, cheery ways. Luckily it was a mild attack
and everybody got well; but it made it mighty
easy for Doc Hoover to bring sinners tinder
conviction for a year to come.
When it was all
over Binder didn’t have a friend in town.
Leaked out little by little that as soon as one
of the men who’d been cheering for jolly old
Binder got yellow jack, the first thing he did
was to make his wife swear that she’d have
Magoffin do the planting.
You see, that
while a man may think it’s all foolishness
for an undertaker to go around solemn and
sniffling, he’ll be a little slow about
hiring a fellow to officiate at his funeral
who’s apt to take a sense of humor to it.
Si Perkins was the
last one to get well, and the first time he was
able to walk as far as the store he made a little
speech. Wanted to know if we were going to let a
Connecticut Yankee trifle with our holiest
emotions. Thought he ought to be given a chance
to crack his blanked New England jokes in Hades.
Allowed that the big locust in front of
Binder’s store made an ideal spot for a
jolly little funeral. Of course Si wasn’t
exactly consistent in this, but, as he used to
say, it’s the consistent men who keep the
devil busy, because no one’s ever really
consistent except in his cussedness. It’s
been my experience that consistency is simply a
steel hoop around a small mind--it keeps it from
expanding.
Well, Si
hadn’t more than finished before the whole
crowd was off whooping down the street toward
Binder’s. As soon as they got in range of
the house they began shooting at the windows and
yelling for him to come out if he was a man, but
it appeared that Binder wasn’t a
man--leastways, he didn’t come out--and
investigation showed that he was streaking it
back for Connecticut.
I simply mention
this little incident as an example of the fact
that popularity is a mighty uncertain critter and
a mighty unsafe one to hitch your wagon to.
It’ll eat all the oats you bring it, and
then kick you as you’re going out of the
stall. It’s happened pretty often in my time
that I’ve seen a crowd pelt a man with mud,
go away, and, returning a few months or a few
years later, and finding him still in the same
place, throw bouquets at him. But that, mark you,
was because first and last he was standing in the
right place.
It’s been my
experience that there are more cases of hate at
first sight than of love at first sight, and that
neither of them is of any special consequence.
You tend strictly to your job of treating your
men square, without slopping over, and when you
get into trouble there’ll be a little bunch
to line up around you with their horns down to
keep the wolves from cutting you out of the herd.
Your affectionate
father,
JOHN GRAHAM.
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