It was windy and lonely looking. And it was cold that day, like it was this last winter. Yep, the spot being perused by my brother Gerald and I was the place where we had lived once upon a time a long time ago. An old grocery store site with a small apartment in the back—all gone now. Most of Centrahoma was gone too. My thoughts went back to one night back in 1942.

The only thing that kept us from freezing to death was our faithful “sheet iron heater.” This old heater would glow red when it was fired up on cold nights. I thought we had things pretty good that night. The stove was hot, dad had our radio tuned to Fibber Magee and Molly. We were all home--together. Life, I thought, was good.

There was Gerald, Sue and me at home then. We all had the itch. Scabies. The Sarcoptes Mite. These little mites dig into the skin making tiny mole-like tunnels that cause intense itching. It’s when they lay their eggs in these tunnels that all heck breaks loose. The itching gets bad. My 2 ^nd grade class at Centrahoma school was infested. Except for Annie Smith. She said she never got it.

But mom was on it. She had her plans. She was to interrupt the little amount of tranquility and happiness we had on that cold winter night by announcing that tonight we were getting rid of this itch. We had already tried that. We had been dipped like cattle in some sort of vile bath water and endured applications of greasy-smelly ointments which didn’t do any good. But tonight, was to be different. Our mama meant business. She had been going in and out, bringing in water from the outside well and pouring it into our ice-cold metal tub that served as a bathtub. But surely, I thought, there would be no bathing tonight. It was too cold. Too windy. I was wrong.

Mom had the tub close to the wood-burning cook stove which was also going full blast. She heated water on it for our bath. She would add enough hot water to the tub to bring the temperature up to a point your heart no longer stopped when you were dipped in it. And yes, she stripped us off and one by one bathed us in this coolish water while using Grandma Julia’s homemade lye soap. Grandma Julia lived over at Lula. That soap could change one’s gender. I figured if the cold didn’t kill me the soap would. Mom liked stuff that burned, and the worst was yet to come. She then smeared us with a yucky lotion called “Itch O Cide.” This yellowish-green stinking potion was to be applied liberally--all over us and allowed to dry on the skin for 30 minutes after which you washed the smelly stuff off.

We were allowed to race back into the living area by our beloved sheet-iron heater in an attempt to survive the cold and in 30 minutes Gerald and Sue were rinsed off and dried. Mom decided that since I was the “carrier” I would just sleep in my layer of goop. All night. No rinse job for me. Just my pajamas. I think I still have brain damage caused by all the indignities heaped on me that cold night, but I have to admit, the next day I didn’t have the itch anymore. I awoke still coated in this dried out yellowish smelly powder. It was on my skin, my hair and my bed. And I wore some of that yellow dust to school that day. Gerald? Well, he was squeaky clean as was Mana Sue. He said, “stay away from me.” The traitor.

That day at school my former best friend Letha Mae asked me what that yellow dust was on my neck. I told her, pridefully, I had no idea. The Bible says, “Pride goeth before a fall.” But it doesn’t say anything about the itch.

Have a great week and be sure and go to church Sunday. You won’t catch the itch down there. I don’t think. Covid? Uh. Don’t know. You can wear a mask.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

waynebullard@sbcglobal.net