I’d jump at the chance to ride shotgun br on Henry’s medicine wagon br rolling from city to village br hawking 'Stickin’ Salve' and 'Oil of Gladness'. br br We’d ride into Elmira’s County Fair br and set up over by the lake. br I’d fix Diamond a pail of oats br and pour her a bucket of water. br while great, great grandpa br dons his Union coat and cap br and arranges potions on the shelves. br br Henry’s voice would cut the air br like a megaphone br and people would gather close - br lured by an old soldier's br hypnotic banter of miracle cures - br and perilous Civil War battles. br br Then he’d swear on his mother’s Lumbago br that 'Stickin’ Salve' works just as well br as the lead and powder br he’d fired at Cedar Mountain. br br The folks would shake with mirth br each time the old man bellowed, br “I’m Henry Howard from Bunker Hill - br Never worked and never will.' br Women would tug their husband's sleeves br and they’d bring me pennies and dimes. br br After dusk we’d tally the coins br and latch down the wagon for the night. br At sunrise I'd wipe his brow - br to ease him gently back br from the thunder of enemy shells br still firing in his restless sleep. br br We'd cook up some bacon and biscuits br then hitch old Diamond to the wagon br and head south through the rolling hills br along the Tioga valley. br We’d breathe in the fresh country air br and tip our hats to the farmers. br br If Henry would come to tap my shoulder br some promising morning in spring br and whisper 'the wagon's hitched outside, ' br I’d go in a Tioga minute.