Our town doctor was not the sensitive type. He was a big man, really big, with the large fleshy hands that only a doctor can have. As I recall, he drove a Jaguar and liked to race with my dad, who drove a T-Bird or whatever else he wanted. Anyway, getting vaccinated meant a trip to the dreaded office that always reeked with the smell of alcohol. Not the good stuff like Jack Daniels, J.W. Dant, and the other names that won the West, and brought solace to so many, but the bad stuff that meant needles and suffering.

After waiting for a suitable eternity, they finally admitted mom and me into the torture chamber. The doctor, being the astute child psychologist that he was not, entered the room and, as was his custom, took stock of his victim by application of “the eye.” I digress; did I mention that the only reason I agreed to this was to get an airplane ride? Yeah, Mom made a deal with me that if I went quietly, and cooperated I’d be rewarded with an airplane ride.