There are certain moments in childhood that stay tucked away in the quiet corners of your memory—little things that seemed ordinary at the time, yet somehow grew more meaningful as the years rolled by. One of those moments, at least for me, always began with a sneeze.
You know how it goes: someone sneezes, and instinctively, someone else says something in return. Maybe you’re the type who offers a polite “Bless you,” or maybe you don’t say anything at all. But in our family, when someone sneezed, it was almost a guarantee that Grandma Cooper would be the first voice you heard.
Most of the time, she said it softly and tenderly—“God bless you”—followed by a warm, one-armed hug if she was anywhere within hugging distance. And if you were the kind of kid who enjoyed that special little squeeze of affection, you might occasionally let out a sneeze that wasn’t entirely… authentic. Not that I would have ever done anything like that, of course. Just saying.
But every now and then, she switched things up. Instead of her usual blessing, she might lean in, raise an eyebrow, and say, “Gazuntite.”
The very first time she said it, my head whipped around so fast you’d think someone had called my name from across the room. There she was, standing with her hands on her hips and a grin spreading across her face.
“What’s the matter, Bobby? You don’t speak French?” she teased.
“French?” I asked, trying to make sense of this mysterious new word.
“Of course,” she said confidently. “It’s spelled G-a-z-u-n-t-i-t-e.”
And just like that, French—well, Grandma’s version of it—became part of my vocabulary.
Grandma’s Secret Cold Remedies
Sneezes in our house were often followed by much more than a blessing or a hug. Because if Grandma Cooper had even the slightest suspicion you might be coming down with a cold, she had remedies ready faster than you could rub your nose.
Chicken Soup
Her homemade chicken noodle soup wasn’t just food—it was medicine, magic, and comfort all simmering together. She’d set a steaming bowl in front of you, place a towel over your head, and tell you to breathe deeply. The steam alone felt like it could cure half of what ailed you. To this day, I can still smell those savory herbs rising from the bowl.
Salt Water Gargle
For a sore throat, she mixed her famously “awful but effective” saltwater gargle. Half a teaspoon of salt in warm water. Gargle. Repeat. Four times a day. It wasn’t pleasant, but somehow it helped. And Grandma’s word on such matters was final.
Mustard Plaster
Then there was the mustard plaster—a remedy reserved for serious sniffles and stubborn coughs. She’d mix powdered mustard and flour into a paste, spread it on a cloth, and place it on your chest. According to Grandma, it increased blood flow and warmth, helping you breathe easier.
I just remember thinking it smelled like a ballpark hotdog. If mustard was on my chest, shouldn’t there be a hotdog somewhere?
Vicks VapoRub
My mom preferred to skip the mustard ritual entirely and reach for the Vicks. A little under the nose, a bit on the chest, maybe even on the soles of your feet before bed. It wasn’t quite as dramatic as Grandma’s method, but the cooling menthol always felt like a clean breath of winter air.
Learning “French” in Sixth Grade
It wasn’t until sixth grade that I took my new vocabulary for a spin. A girl in my class sneezed, and in an effort to impress her (as only a sixth-grade boy can), I proudly said, “Gazuntite.”
Mrs. Moss turned toward me with a look that was equal parts amusement and curiosity. “That’s a lovely gesture,” she said warmly, “but let’s make sure everyone knows how to spell the word Gesundheit.”
She wrote it on the chalkboard—G-e-s-u-n-d-h-e-i-t.
I stared at it. Hard.
“That’s not how you spell Gazuntite,” I said with complete confidence.
Mrs. Moss smiled. “Then let’s take a look in the Merriam-Webster Dictionary.”
I’ll never forget those three words—Merriam-Webster Dictionary—because inside its pages was the confirmation that the spelling was, in fact, entirely different from Grandma’s “French” version.
I refused to accept it. And yes, I got the word wrong on my spelling test.
Some lessons come slowly.
Years later, of course, I learned the truth—Gesundheit is a German word, not French at all. But even after discovering the correct spelling, I still cherish the version Grandma Cooper taught me.
Because for me, “Gazuntite” isn’t about proper spelling or linguistic origins. It’s about the love wrapped in every hug, the comfort of her cold remedies, and the way she made you feel like the most important person in the world with two simple words.
It’s funny how a sneeze, a soup bowl, or even a mustard plaster can carry the warmth of an entire childhood.
And every time I hear someone say “Gesundheit,” I smile—because in my heart, it will always be spelled G-a-z-u-n-t-i-t-e.
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