Pub. Note: What serendipitous timing for the debut of irrepressible and unpredictable Pat Cashman’s column—juxtaposed as it is with the posting of the NATAS Emmy nominees, prior to the June 5 virtual Emmy awards event. It just so happens that the iconic Cashman has two dozen of the golden statuettes in his trophy case and has emceed the Emmy gala a dozen times. His son, Chris, has been handling the duties of late, as he will this year.
By Pat Cashman
Season’s greetings!
That’s the the flu and cold season—which to many peoples’ delight did not get celebrated at all—a direct benefit of wearing face masks so often in public. That worked out really well for me, since I can never figure out what gift to give during that season. (Current Seahawks fan joke: “Why don’t Arizona Cardinals wear masks? Because they provide no defense.”)
But beyond the mask-wearing, a lot of us have now become part of Vaccination Nation—receiving the Pfizer, Moderna or Johnson and Johnson versions. My neighbor got the Kirkland-brand shot—which came with a huge pumpkin pie and toilet paper.
Fred Meyer’s and Safeway-Albertson’s offer COVID shots in their pharmacy departments. My local store doesn’t have a pharmacy, so I went to the meat department. After filling out a questionnaire, I assumed the position. “You can pull your Dockers back up, sir. COVID shots go into the arm,” said the butcher.
This vaccine thing takes me back to grade school days—a time of deep dread. “Shot Day” would produce the loudest student wailing of the year—well before the nurse had even shown up. The anticipation of a small pox or polio booster was excruciating. My knees would knock together like castanets. Impressed, the school music director asked me to join band.
One kid named Tim was so afraid of shots that he couldn’t even bear the sight of the Space Needle. Waiting in line for his inoculation, he began screaming so loudly that a team of firemen ran in thinking an alarm had gone off.
Of course, after Tim actually received his shot, he instantly quieted down. Then, as he strutted past us other kids still waiting in line, he spoke coolly. “It’s no big deal,” he bragged. “I hardly felt a thing.” Yes, Tim the Wimp had the nerve to be cocky. That’s why during recess we punched him in his shot arm—and then gave him the biggest wedgie in school history. It’s a record that still stands.
After receiving our jabs, most of us imagined our arms to be totally useless. They’d hang limply at our sides like weather socks on a windless day. One kid told the teacher that he couldn’t take a math test because his writing arm was so “gammy.” The teacher reminded him that the test was oral. Then he decided his mouth was pretty sore, too.
In fact, the terror of “Shot Day” had little to do with the actual inoculations. Instead, the schoolwide hysteria was fueled from the upper grades by Hearsay and Rumor. Those were their names: Marvin Hearsay and Ronnie Rumor.
One year, a story began circulating around school that doctors had decided shots in the arm just weren’t effective anymore. Instead, shots would be given in the eye. That’s when Tim lapsed into a coma.
When we were third-graders, older kids told us that eating chicken caused chicken pox. So Colonel Sanders was a super-spreader? And German measles are caused by sauerkraut? My school was awash in fake news.
My cousin Tony was around 12 years old when—goofing around at home—he accidentally sat on his mom’s pin-cushion. Or maybe it was on purpose. It was always hard to tell with Tony. Regardless, the cushion wasn’t the problem—it was the multiple long sewing needles residing upon it.
The cloth cushion was designed to resemble a bright, red tomato. But it didn’t feel like a beefsteak when Tony’s caboose landed on it. The scream he emitted was so shrill, dogs from the neighborhood began to howl, too. No wonder—as a dozen needles, with the faux tomato still attached, were situated firmly onto—no, make that into—Tony’s fanny.
He had suddenly received—in the worst way possible—buns of steel.
As Tony caterwauled, his dad walked him gingerly (avoiding all refrigerator magnets) out to the car for the quick drive to the emergency room. Tony knelt over the backseat of the station wagon, his hindquarters on high. He looked like a four-legged rump roast wearing pants, with a tomato garnish.
Fewer than 20 minutes later, with the cushion and needles successfully extracted by a doctor, Tony was eager to head home. After all, in one fell swoop, he had undergone a lifetime of do-it-yourself acupuncture. But there was one last, redundant indignity: a tetanus shot. The doctor thought it prudent, just in case Tony’s mom used rusty sewing needles.
When he returned, Tony’s mom and siblings gave him a hearty homecoming—and decided to all pose for a celebratory family photo. But Tony refused to sit for it—or anything else— for a week.
To comfort him, Tony’s mom made some hot soup. She was wise enough not to make tomato—instead serving him a chicken broth.
Sure enough, three days later, Tony came down with chicken pox.