I heard a phrase the other day that I hadn’t heard in years. Someone said, “she’s got more shoes that Carter’s got liver pills.” When I was a kid, one of the items advertised on the radio was Carter’s Little Liver Pills. If I remember correctly, they were called Carter’s Little Liver Pills, and were really mostly for back pain, but were considered a treatment for just about anything. As truth in advertising came along, they weren’t allowed to call them Liver Pills because they did nothing for the liver so the name was changed to Carter’s Little Pills. I don’t ever remember them being so popular after the name change. I think using Liver in the name helped keep them in people’s mind — it just had a nice ring to it. Plus, because lots of people believed if there was anything wrong with you, Carter’s Little Liver Pills would fix it, it became a kind of joke — if you bumped your head or broke your arm, someone was sure to suggest you “take a Carter’s Little Liver Pill.”
I don’t remember much about “medicine shows” that traveled around the country putting on a “show” and peddling some sort of medicine during intermission — they had mostly disappeared by the time I was old enough to remember them. But I do remember all sorts of medicines being hawked on the radio. They all fell into the “Toddies for the body” category and cured whatever ailment you were suffering from or thought you were suffering from. And even if you thought nothing was wrong with you, the man on the radio could convince you otherwise. If you listened close, the man “on the radio” would eventually describe your ailment — even though you didn’t know you had it when you started listening. Turns out that a cure was always available for your ailment and would be sent to you for a dollar or two (plus 25 cents for shipping and handling.)
I don’t remember the names of most of the “medicine” we had in our house when I was growing up — I know one was Campho-Phenique — I’m not sure what it was supposed to do, but I think my mother used it for everything from a sore throat to a cut finger. The one “medicine” I remember the most was Hadacol. Most people my age remember Hadacol because at one time it was the second largest advertiser in the US — right after Coca-Cola. I even had a dog named Hadacol — because I “hadda call” him something. The name was a big joke and I’m sure at least partially the reason for its success.
Hadacol was “invented” by Dudley LeBlanc. Dudley was a born entrepreneur that ventured into all kinds of schemes — he sold shoes, tobacco, patent medicine and funeral insurance. He also ran (unsuccessfully) for governor of Louisiana.
Anyhow, in 1941 LeBlanc ran into trouble with the FDA over the patent medicines he was selling. He stopped selling Dixie Dew Cough Syrup and Happy Day Headache Powders rather that fight with the FDA and came up with something much better — Hadacol. According to LeBlanc, he was suffering from pain in his big toe, and the only doctor who could help him wouldn’t share the recipe for the medicine he used. So LeBlanc stole some from the Doctor’s inattentive nurse and researched the ingredients on the label. From that information, he developed Hadacol.
Hadacol was a mixture of vitamins B1 and B2, iron, niacin, calcium, phosphorous, honey, and diluted hydrochloric acid in 12% alcohol. Even though the alcohol content wasn’t all that high, the hydrochloric acid speeded up the delivery through the body. So the mixture probably did really make people feel better, even though it wasn’t a cure for any disease. It was advertised to cure high blood pressure, ulcers, strokes, asthma, arthritis, diabetes, pneumonia, anemia, cancer, epilepsy, gall stones, heart trouble and hay fever.
The thing that made Hadacol a success was LeBlanc’s advertising genius. He kept supplies low in some pharmacies to create demand and he paid people for their testimonies — sometimes being ridiculous, but people liked them — for instance, “Two months ago I couldn’t read nor write. I took four bottles of Hadacol, and now I’m teaching school.”
The Food and Drug Administration objected to claims that Hadacol could cure diseases, and wanting to avoid trouble, those claims were pulled. So Hadacol became a cure-all for whatever people hoped it wold cure. No matter what was wrong, the medicine made people feel better — and that was all that mattered.
Back to the name — the name was short for Happy Day Company, with an L for LeBlanc. However, when someone asked how he named the drug, LeBland said, “Well, I hadda call it something.” At least the older medicine advertisements were entertaining — the new ones are just scary.
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