I was visiting with my younger son this weekend and we talked about the modern improvements we had been promised for our future. Yes, we saw the “wonder-car” film showing the man who pushed a button on the dash turning it into an airplane, and him, its owner, flying it away to work. Also, we were led to believe that modern science would soon have a cure for cancer, flu and all other diseases. Our expectations were unlimited.

Well, we still have cancer, covid, aids, graves’ disease and all kinds of other pesky disorders and diseases. Worse of all, we still have the itch. The itch makes me think of Centrahoma in 1942 where the Bullard family lived in the back end of their drafty old grocery store. My late brother Gerald once said “Centrahoma is the poorest place I ever did see.” It was. One miserable night comes to mind. The weather was as bad as it was here last weekend.

We had electricity but no running water and no bathroom. Gerald, Sue and I had the worst case of itch known to mankind. But I was happy. Sort of. We afflicted three had been huddled around the wood burning stove listening to Fibber Magee and Molly on the Radio when mom said, “OK, you three, up and into the kitchen.” She had taken our washtub, got it filled with water, warmed it up (a little) with teakettle water from her cookstove. She had a giant bottle in her hand. Its label said it was “Itch-OCide,” This disgusting preparation smelled like sulfur. The deal was, we all get undressed, she washes us up in the tub using Grandma Julia’s homemade soap, rinses us off and slathers us with Itch-O-Cide. And she did and a rinse. Then, we were free to race back to the old woodburning heater and warm up. That night I was made to sleep with this stuff all over me. The other two (I always had suspected she liked them better) got a rinse job. Not me. She said I was worse, a carrier and leaving it on all night might be therapeutic.

The next morning, I wore this yellow powder to school. My favorite squeeze, Letha Mae Moore kept asking me about that yellow powder but I never told her. And I, like my two siblings, were now itch free, thanks to mom. And her Itch-O-Cide. Ah happiness!

Have a good week and be sure and go to church on Sunday. But be careful who you shake hands with. The itch? I still

enjoy hearing from my readers.

Wayne Bullard, DPh

cwaynebullard@gmail.com