You could read the sign on the side of Dr. Randall’s medicine wagon from a half-mile away. He’d roll into town every couple of months to put on a show. It was a cross between a tent revival meeting and a wandering minstrel faire.
Granny used to say all Randall sold was snake oil and lies. His pills were powdered sugar and his tonic just sassafras-flavored moonshine. His potions could only cause diabetes and cirrhosis, she’d say.
“Indeed, I suspect he isn’t even a real doctor,” Granny would scoff.
She still got her dandelion tinctures from him on the sly.