Courtesy
Long before COVID-19, health happenings in Madison Park and Seattle required some medical diligence and solutions. In the 30s, my school, Shoalwater, and many grade schools gave students form letters to be signed by parents and returned to proceed with inoculations.
Days later, as school started, we met on the grounds and talked about our daily lives. Instead of discussing the latest computer programs, Facebook, TikTok, and AI, we little tykes traded what was known as Little Big Books. These 5” x 4” comprehensive books had exciting stories and illustrations. Incredibly entertaining were the cartoon caricatures in the upper right corner that would move when we flipped the pages. The supply of these books was limited, which was why we traded them.
The school doors opened, and we were ushered into the assembly hall. The air was filled with a medicinal odor. What could this be? We wondered. Not far away, a smiling nurse stood by a door. One after another, we drew closer to this abnormally overly smiling medical assistant who was overzealous in her statements like “What nice boys and girls (blah blah blah).” We talked amongst ourselves, comparing her to the villain in the Buck Rogers movies. She matched us with a list, and we entered a room beyond the door where a sizable doctor and another nurse (who seemed normal) were.
After rolling up a sleeve, a needle about the size of a six-penny nail emerged. The doctor gently jabbed it into my arm. The “Ouch” was not heard outside this door. Then, it was back to homeroom, where we all expressed disgust. This was not the way to start a school day.
Months later, Mom, Dad, and I drove to downtown Seattle, which had to be the best part of the day, other than something about eating all the ice cream I wanted. Dad parked the car, and we took an elevator into a very tall building to find a kind nurse who went to the same acting school as the six-penny nail needle nurse. I asked, “Is there a needle?” “No, no needle,” and I was escorted to a room where I lay as the nurse held my hands down. Next, the doctor had a colander over my nose that dripped ether into the cotton. For lack of better words, this was a bum trip. I was in and out of consciousness, and the next thing I knew, I was back in the car and heard my parents say in unison, “Ice cream!”
These preventative measures kept us healthy in the day and did improve eventually, but only when we kids of the era suffered a bit more. One day after school, we drove to a house past US99 in what looked to be a nice neighborhood. We were greeted at the?” A dentist’s office in a home? The tools of trade were mainly out of sight except for a chair and an apparatus similar to Gilbert’s Erector set.
Something was said about a cavity, and then it was right to the tooth, again with my arms held down. I reacted to the drill and bit him! He slapped me, and Mom and Dad scolded me. The tooth was dealt with, and we left, but before my grand exit, the nurse said something under her breath and handed me a Hershey candy bar. I threw the candy away, for I was severely deceived. Mom and Dad repeated the story of my biting the quack dentist to neighbors, and I suppose, in a macabre way, it was funny.
When Dad joined the Army Air Force, we moved south. I broke out with a rash and saw a doctor in southern L.A. He cut samples from my back, looked through a telescope, and then took more samples. I did not hear what the doctor said. We drove back to our adobe and saw a friend of Dad’s, a doctor at the base. He took a spoon, pressed my tongue, and said, “Chicken Pox.” At last, medical headway!
After the war, we moved back to Madison Park, and I became a student at J.J. McGilvra’s. The needles were more frequent, but the needle width was noticeably thinner. The polio epidemic was prevailing, and after seeing a man in an iron lung during a movie, we stayed away from the beach (where lakes were the source). We then begrudgingly accepted all injections.
Summer and the lakes reopened at last. We were again bathed in baby oil and iodine to reach a healthy tan in three days. Even though we seldom burned, a new problem emerged. West of Edgewater, where Canterbury is now, was a vast swamp. Around dusk, battalions of monster-sized mosquitos made Madison Park their hunting ground for a tasty meal. It was common to hear neighbors swatting the critters with anything short of a 16-gauge shotgun.
Dr. Harris, the neighborhood doctor located just south of our present pharmacy, was the answer man when it came to stopping the itch. The problem was that the flying insects always knew to sting where the sun didn’t shine. When Dr. Harris prescribed the new-to-the-market Campho-Phenique, it was a hard lesson that gravity prevailed, and the lotion traveled to the nether regions, making it worse than the itch.
The city took notice of the Madison Park dilemma, so a jeep with one driver and two long hoses ran between the houses. The driver sprayed gardens and standing water with a solution that produced white smoke. The problem was eventually resolved.
Our present-day medicines, surgeries, alternative cures, and inoculation choices are many, and they are designed to prevent illnesses. It is good to contemplate how this can benefit all of us.