Polio was coming to get us: that’s what me and my neighborhood buddies believed. Our mothers could talk of nothing else but the dreaded affliction. My mother would check my temperature at breakfast and right before bedtime.
Fort Worth in 1956 was smack-dab in the middle of the Polio epidemic.
The walls, the baseboards, and every door handle were scrubbed clean. My mother had declared war on the Polio germ, and thanks to that, I didn’t see a swimming pool or movie theater for my entire summer vacation. We, kids, weren’t afraid of the Polio germ: we continued to share a cold Coke or a popsicle; swapping spit didn’t phase us; we had been exposed to every germ in the galaxy, so we figured we were immune.
Halfway through July, and being the hottest summer my folks could remember, a kid two streets over came down with the Polio. Of course, our mothers overreacted and quarantined us until it was deemed safe to venture outside. I knew the kid; his name was Jeremy Pullium, and he was in the fifth grade and played baseball on one of our city’s Little League teams. His little brother, Stevie, sometimes played ball with us and was an official gang member.
The neighborhood mothers thought visiting Jeremy and taking him some cupcakes would be nice. Mrs. Mister made the treats, and she and her two Poodles, Fred and Ginger, would accompany us on the visit.
A quarantine sign was stuck in Jeremy’s front yard, and another was on the front door. We were led back to Jeremeys’s bedroom, where Mrs Mister held the pan of cupcakes.
There was baseball-playing Jeremy lying in a large metal tube that took up most of the bedroom. He seemed happy to see us, even though he couldn’t escape his contraption. Skipper, our neighborhood wiz-kid, checked out the machine called an Iron Lung. We thought it was nifty. The cupcakes were passed around, and Jeremy’s mother fed him one with a fork. Everything but his head was trapped inside the machine. We didn’t get it; he could talk like nothing was wrong and move his head around, but the rest of him was paralyzed and trapped in the Iron Lung. Jeremy’s mother explained how the machine kept him alive by breathing for him, and the doctors said he might be in the lung for a year and was likely to recover.
On the way over to Jeremy’s house, Mrs. Mister warned us about being polite, and she meant it. All the mothers had deputized her, and she was allowed to administer a butt whooping if needed.
Georgie is usually the one that gets us in trouble; he can’t contain his mouth. Looking into one of the machine’s windows, he asks Jeremy,
” What do you do if you gotta pee or poop?”
Before Jeremy’s mother could answer the delicate question, Jeremy says,
” I just do it, and the nurse cleans me up. I don’t have to do nothing. Pretty cool.”
The visit abruptly ends. Once we reach the sidewalk, Mrs. Mister, using her open hand, pops Georgie upside his mouthy little head several times. We heard that later that day, Georgie got a well-deserved butt whooping from his mother while Mrs. Mister enjoyed a glass of iced tea and observed her technique.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 