10 
     
    
   
   
    
     flame of the alcohol lamp heralded the 
     
     crying, fainting, and general 
     
     apprehension that the names were about 
     
     to be called and the dreaded punctures 
     
     would begin. Often some of the mothers 
     
     came to the school to lend moral support 
     
     and to allay fear. Some boys and girls 
     
     would refuse to budge from their seats 
     
     when their names were called. That’s 
     
     when the good doctor and his assistant 
     
     would provide “delivery service” to the 
     
     reluctant patient. 
     
    

    
     Once when I was six or seven years 
     
     old I refused to answer the call. The 
     
     nurse came to my seat with a colorful 
     
     health poster to distract me while the 
     
     doctor quickly punctured my thin, left 
     
     arm. Upon realizing that I had been 
     
     duped, I burst out with, “You God— 
     
     dammed old son of a bitch!” This was to