I had all of the childhood diseases. I don't remember the measles specifically, but according to legend, I woke up the Old People early one morning because I didn't feel well. I was 3 or 4 and my mother took one look at my spotty face and started laughing.
Don't be too judgmental, because back then parents had to expect their chids would contract these diseases at some point and that the chid would probably survive with just enough drama to make the inconvenience interesting.
The chicken pox hit some time later and that even inconvenienced me. I remember the itching and the disgusting regimen of getting into a bathtub full of oatmealy water. On purpose. I remember my siblings got to do the exact same thing and I got to go outside and play. Neener neener neener.
The mumps were really cool. I recall my lunch tasted funny at school, but I wasn't hungry anyway. The next day, everything was broken. My mother prepared milkshakes and other liquid nutrition to keep me from wasting away. She had an ulterior motive: most of the JuneCleaverClones saw to it that mumps were expedited by exposing the other siblings. What I learned later was that my brothers got their milkshakes just as soon as I relinquished the germy cup. Heh, heh, heh. We all looked like chipmunks, and a lot of the neighbors came by (with their chids) to see how we were getting along. My younger brother sat and cried because it hurt so bad when he swallowed - but not so much that he quit eating.
Fast forward many moons...
...Until the spring of The Flood. Guido had come down with chicken pox in mid to late May. This was good timing considering he wasn't in school to miss any, and my Dear Sweet Wife followed tradition and made sure all three schmedlets played together while he was in the communicable phase of the affliction. We calculated that Gracie was likely to finish school before she and Gladys came down with it and that there were economies of scale to be realized this way. The chief benefit was supposed to be that she would be quarantined with miserably sick children for only four weeks instead of six. "Ha-ha" he laughed weakly.
Two weeks later, Guido's on the mend and Gracie erupts in pox. Gladys shows no signs of any illness whatsoever. Several days later, Gracie's humiliating misery is complete because she's hip deep in oatmeal. Gladys is pox-free. As Gracie begins to mutate back into human form around day 8, Gladys finally presents with the earliest symptoms.
So life goes on, and after five weeks of Serial Chicken Pox Therapy, the sky falls.
And falls.
And falls some more.
Our little starter-house subdividdle had (and still has) only two exits and their intersection is at The Big Low Spot. Fortunately, I had the schmedmobile's predecessor at the salt mine when the water rose to the point they closed the street to keep the waves from going inside the houses of the less fortunate. Our house was on the high end, so the rising water wasn't a direct threat, but my DSW was stranded nonetheless. I'd park my car at the little pretend boulevard thing at the entrance and wade home like everybody else.
Once the rain stopped, the water kept rising. The very helpful weatherbeings explained that the Amite River was still rising, so Bayou Manchac couldn't empty and that was backing everything else up into our teeny-tiny creek. So there we all were, in the bright sunshine with water in the street and Armed Law Enforcement Personnel standing guard at the barricades.
This went on for the better part of a week.
Finally the rivers crested and the waters began to slowly recede - just about the time Gladys' pox crusted over and began to heal (meaning she was no longer communicable and the other Villagers wouldn't storm our house with pitchforks and torches). After six weeks with our pocky chids, my DSW had had all the cabin fever she could stand and a pantry so bare that she had to get out to the grocery - even if she had to tow them all along.
So early that fateful morning, I wade out to the car along with all my neighbors like it's the most normal way to start a workday and notice the Sentinel isn't at the barricades. I get to the saltmine and promptly forget to call my DSW and tell her.
Oops.
No matter, because later that day, she peeps out the window and notices the barricades are unmanned. FREEDOM!
She grabs the list, her purse and the coupons, piles all three schmedlets into the minivan and creeps through the waters at a dead crawl. At the supermarket, she makes up for lost time with a right proper grocery run. The minivan is full of all manner of stuff, including frozen foods and ice cream. It's midafternoon in the Baton Rouge summer, and you can bake bread in any vehicle sitting in a black asphalt parking lot for more than 30 minutes. It takes 20 minutes to cool the minivan down to a level approaching comfortable. We live 10 minutes from the store - 15 tops.
When my Dear Sweet Wife gets back to the subdivision, you'll never guess who's back. Yep, Deputy Fife is on duty and simply cannot allow any traffic to pass. The frozen peas are thawing. The schmedlets are melting. The ICE CREAM is melting. Her perspiration-matted hair begins to slowly stand on end. Veins and tendons begin to bulge prominently from her lovely forehead and neck. The vinyl cover of the steering wheel begins to extrude between her fingers as she grips it. The ground beneath the Deputy's feet begins to tremble. Deputy Fife involuntarily steps back, lifts the flap on his shirt pocket where he keeps his bullet, and then...
...A brilliant light shines down on the Deputy, a light only he sees in the full sun of the afternoon, and suddenly it is all very clear to him. This car, and all who ride in it, may pass. It may pass immediately, without delay - save for the brief moment it takes him to move the fluorescent-striped sawhorse.
Somewhere in a doughnut shop, during a break in the graveyard shift, a grizzled veteran sheriff's deputy tells a tale to rookies about the day he became enlightened to the prudent excercise of discretion in matters of traffic administration.
Recent Comments