Several years later, the Porter family all had smallpox—and Bill, the elder, died of it. And Bill, the second — there is a third Bill Porter, and a fourth Bill Porter now — tells me that not for six months thereafter did they have callers. Had I loaded his wagon that day of my fire, the loss of my uncle would have made it regrettable—but I don’t think that I would have allowed him to cart away anything, even had he accepted my offer.
Jessie Bryant’s three-months old daughter, Violet, was first in the Porter family to have it, and she was thought to have contracted the disease in a rather peculiar way. Jessie was holding the baby on her lap as she read a letter from her husband, Lon Bryant, who was working in Nebraska, saying he would have to move from the place he was staying, on account of the people in the home having smallpox.
The burning of the things was mostly done that afternoon, but the fumigation would carry over into the next day. To avoid an extra scrubbing of myself, with change of clothing twice, I planned to stay that night in the house, and held back one bed and some bedding. It was in the same room I had occupied, and was first to be fumigated. It would get another dose of brimstone the next day, after the room would be cleared. I opened all windows and one outer door, but the room did not air out readily. The brimstone had penetrated the bed covers so as to make them squeak under touch, and I could hardly get my breath in the room. It was almost dark, and quite cold. I could not sit by an open window, through the night. Then I thought of a roll of linoleum in the kitchen. I put one end of the rolled linoleum in the bed and stuck the other end out the window. With the coat I had worn that day wrapped around my neck, I got in bed, covered up head and foot, stuck my face in the funnel, chinked around with the old coat, and got through the night very well—with little sleep, however.
Our close neighbors did not show undue fright. In fact, they volunteered assistance while the home was under quarantine—but they had the good sense to limit their visits to the middle of the road in front of the house. My brother Sam got out before the red flag was posted, and took refuge in his mobile photo gallery. My father got caught, with my mother, in the kitchen—and remained there and in a connecting bedroom until permitted by the proper authorities to go to his shoeshop. And there, save for one lone kid, he had no callers, for the duration—but, with the help of this boy runner he kept the supply line open to the quarantined house. Louie Gibbons, half-brother of “Spike” Wilson, our old Spectator’s celebrated “Devil,” after spending forty years in Minneapolis, Minnesota, got the urge to see what Wetmore and Holton looks like now—and, after flying to Kansas City, dropped in here for a day recently. When he found out who I was, and I learned who he was, he said, “You know, I used to carry groceries over to your home in the east part of town when you had smallpox.”
Oldtimers who have often heard the expression, applied to persons of dubious ways and stupendous blunders, should not miss the climax in this last paragraph. After I had cleaned myself up with doubly strong solution of corrosive sublimate — which, by the way, salivated me — I called on our neighbors, Don and Cass Rising. Don had been choreboy for the folks while holed up. My face was not pitted, and Don said that I must have had smallpox very lightly, or maybe not at all. I told him I had protected my face because I figured that it would be about all I would have left after the expense of the thing—but if he would send his wife out of the room, I would show him. My hips, and even farther back all the way round, were badly pitted — still very red, almost raw. When I showed him, Don yelled, “Cass, Cass—come in here!” I started to pull my pants up, but he grabbed hold of my garment, saying, “No, no — don’t!” Then he shoved my trousers down even farther than I had dropped them.
And the lady came in.
CORRECT VISION
Little Donna Cole was whimpering in my wife’s arms as Myrtle was carrying her niece to the child’s home after nightfall, with a half-full moon lighting the way. Myrtle said, “Oh, Donna, you must not cry—don’t you see the pretty moon?” Donna stopped her whimpering and after a moment, said, “I can see half of it, Aunt Myrtle.”
GRAPES — RIPENED ON FRIENDSHIP’S VINE
Not Hitherto Published—1947.