Scary Spring: Our Polio Fright of 1955

By Carol Ann Hartnell

"Fire it up" for friendship, fun, adventure, mystery, and courage that fill the pages of Scary Spring: Our Polio Fright of 1955. Like the Indian-head hood ornament on Aunt Jean's Pontiac Chieftain car that leads the way down dark and scary streets, Pete leads his friend, Carol Ann, on fun and frightening adventure

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawk Prints Publishing LLC
• Release date: Mar 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9780999050255

Carol Ann Hartnell

Jingle bells are ringing and snowflakes are falling in author C.A. Hartnell's Christmas-filled, package-wrapped, fast-paced, historical-fiction chapter book, Wild Winter: Christmas, Clues, and Crooks, for readers eight and up. This is the fourth and final volume in the four book series, The 1950s Adventures of Pete and Carol Ann, inspired by cool places, dreamy decorations, and actual events from Hartnell's childhood. The author spent her grammar school years at Cherrylee School in El Monte, Southern California, home of American Legion Stadium where rock 'n' roll thrived and Christmas was celebrated with a special, all-city children's Christmas party. Hartnell is the owner of a 1937 Ford Slantback hot rod called Hawk's Ride. Its chopped-top and painted flames would have been right at home in the Legion's parking lot during the 1950s. The author was a board member of Big Hearts for Little Hearts Loma Linda Guild at Loma Linda University Children's Hospital in Loma Linda, California, and has authored six Luke the Lion Activity Books for them. She's written articles for the Guild's newsletter and the hospital's in-house newspaper, TODAY. Author Hartnell belongs to four writer's organizations: SCBWI-Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators, IPBA-Independent Book Publishers Association, ACWA-American Christian Writers Association, and Writer's Institute, Inc. She lives with her husband in the Southwest United States and has four grown children who have blessed her with twelve grandchildrenand many great grandchildren. Ring-a-ting-ting. Hartnell desires to entertain plus encourage readers of all ages who love winter, Christmas, and the joy of the holiday season. Visit her website at: www.cahartnell.com

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Dr. Jonas Salk’s polio vaccine began its first field trial in April of 1954. Seven hundred thousand first, second, and third-graders lined up to receive the vaccine. Americans began to hope that Dr. Salk’s vaccine would stop polio. But one year later, in 1955, a disaster occurred. The vaccine, made by Cutter Laboratories in Berkeley, California, contained live polio virus. This contaminated vaccine affected children in several states. Two hundred four children became infected with polio from the bad batch of vaccine. Over one hundred and fifty kids were paralyzed and eleven died.

The terrible disease of polio caused suffering for adults and children across the United States and around the world. Carol Ann’s connection to polio, Cutter Laboratories, and the polio vaccine began on the first day of April, 1955.

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The familiar plink, plink, ping sound from the shot pot sent shivers down my spine. Yikes! Which unlucky kid in our family is getting a shot? I thought. Could this be the start of a scary spring full of shots and scary things?

Metal needles and glass tubes, used to make shots, pinged inside of a stained cooking pot on the stovetop. Like stiff spaghetti, they bobbed up and down in the boiling water. Steam drifted to the ceiling. A pink, crocheted potholder draped across the shot pot’s handle. My aunt Ruthie, the doctor, stood at her kitchen sink. An April breeze fluttered the window curtains.

I pressed my back against the wall. Yikes. I’m eleven-years-old and still afraid of shots. I hate shots. I took a deep breath. . . no rattle. I swallowed. . . no sore throat. I felt my forehead. . . no fever. Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. No stuffy nose. Whew. I’m okay, so I’m not the one getting a shot. I shifted my school bag and slipped slowly into the steamy kitchen.

My tall and beautiful aunt, Dr. Ruth McCammon, looked more like a movie star than a doctor. A crisp, white apron protected her dress and its flared skirt. Aunt Ruthie smoothed back a strand of her auburn hair then moved next to the stove to check her shot pot. Yikes. I hate shots!

With gloved hands, she used sterile tongs to pick up sterile shot parts from the boiling water. She’s my dad’s only sister, and she’s not afraid of shots. Dad’s proud that she’s a medical doctor and a pathologist. That’s a doctor who studies the symptoms of a disease, I remembered. I’m proud of her, too. She turned around and smiled at me as if she heard my thoughts.

Hi, Aunt Ruthie, I said then asked, is someone sick?

Hello, Carol Ann. Don’t get near Jimmie. He’s sick with strep throat. He needs some medicine to make him feel better, said my aunt with a serious voice.

I saw a movement at the kitchen table. Granny Mary cradled two-year-old Jimmie across her lap. Green, gooey stuff oozed from his scabby nose. He whimpered then turned his gunky face into Granny’s blue-gingham sleeve. Yuk. Poor little guy.

If I hear the ice cream man, do you want me to buy you a Popsicle? I asked. Cousin Jimmie nodded his feverish head up and down like a puppet. I’ll buy you one tomorrow, too.

Thank you, Carol Ann. That’s very thoughtful, said Aunt Ruthie as she turned off the burner under her crusty, old shot pot. Steam rose up and circled her face as she readied the shot.

See you later, I said. Hmm. . . the shot pot is out. . . Jimmie is sick. He must be getting a shot. . . so it’s time for me to get out and get out fast before I witness an injection! That’s what Aunt Ruthie calls a shot.

In the yard, I listened for the tinkling tunes of the ice cream man’s truck. Jimmie needed a Popsicle so he’d feel better. He also needed some courage to face getting a shot. Pete said it’s only a little sting.

I wish my good friend Pete could talk to him. An old shot pot doesn’t scare Pete. He’s the same age as me, but he’s not afraid of anything. It seems like I’m afraid of everything.

As a little kid, he dashed around in a red, homemade cape with black lettering on it that spelled out KID COURAGEOUS. I wish Jimmie and I could have Pete’s kind of courage.

I looked around the yard. Where is Pete? Afternoon air ruffled my newly bobbed, brown hair. The cut ends tickled my neck. I tucked a stray strand behind my ear. Then I ran my fingers on the rounded edge of my pixie collar as I stepped away from my aunt’s house.

Owwwwww! screamed Cousin Jimmie through the open kitchen window. I crossed my arms to grab my thin shoulders. Ouch. Poor Jimmie. I’ll get his Popsicle from the ice cream man!

Carol Ann, Carol Ann, Carol Ann, called my younger sisters and cousins from the play yard. Climb with us, they begged.

The kids crawled on the monkey bars like a bunch of. . . monkeys. My sisters, Kathleen and Gail, climbed with our six-year-old cousin, Cathie. Seven-year-old Mandy Hawking from next door climbed near where I had dropped my school bag.

I smiled at them and their limber arms and legs that swung from bar to bar. Our cousin, Little Charlie, slid down a pole then plopped on the ground. He scrambled back up, so he could hang upside down. His blond hair waved earthward.

I climbed up the metal steps of our tall slide. My hands gripped the cold, steel railings as I hauled myself to the top. . . the top of the world. Puffy clouds floated across the blue sky. With my skirt tucked under me, down, down, down, I slid. My brown bangs flew straight up then flowed like a waterfall across my forehead.

What a kick! This is lots of fun! Quickly, I clambered back up the slide. Up on top again, I looked down into Pete’s yard. The Hawking’s house sat on the front of their lot with a garage and workshop behind it. A huge, grassy area shaded by trees filled in the rest of their yard to the back fence. Where is Pete anyway? Is he at baseball practice today?

Pete’s older brother, John Hawking, stood next to the garage. His friends called him Hawk. The girls called him The Most and Dreamy. Dark-haired Hawk talked to two friends, Tim and Ernie. Blond-haired Tim wiped red paint off of his arm as he balanced on his crutches. Poor Tim got infected with polio a few years ago. He walks with crutches and metal braces.

I spotted Pete’s brown crew cut as he scooted past his sixteen-year-old brother, John, and the other teens. Pete looked up. I waved. He waved back. Hey, Pete, walk over if you can! I yelled.

I’ll ask my mom! he yelled as he ran back to his house.

Carol Ann, Carol Ann, the younger kids called up to me where I waited on top of the slide. Their chorus startled me. I looked down at five filthy faces. Play Hide and Seek with us, they begged. You can hide first.

Not today, kids, I said. I’m waiting for Pete to walk over. Ask Uncle Charlie to play some games with you when he gets home from working at the hospital.

But what about playing Hot Potato? asked my younger sister Kathleen. Or Simon Says? Or Mother May I? Or Red Rover? Or what about dodgeball? That’s your favorite!

I looked down at the kids and said, I’ll play it if Pete wants to."

Yeah, let’s play. . . dodgeball, said Little Charlie.

Where is the dodgeball? asked Pete as he rushed through the gate between our yards. He stood at the end of the slide and used his grimy hands to shade his brown, intelligent eyes. He asked, Are you having fun up there? You wanna play some dodgeball? I’ll throw the ball.

Sure. I stiffened my shoulders then slid swiftly down the slick slide. My world rushed past me. On the ground again, I straightened my skirt and blouse. Pete wiped his hands on his grungy jeans.

The last one left in the game is the winner, said Pete as Little Charlie handed him the ball. We scrambled to the end of the grassy area next to the sidewalk. The little kids pushed and pulled at each other to hide behind me, so they wouldn’t get hit. Pete lifted the ball, moved back his arm, and—whoosh—sped the ball in my direction. I dodged to the right as the ball whizzed past me and thumped Gail on the leg.

Gail, you’re out! yelled Pete. You’re next, Carol Ann.

One by one Pete knocked the little kids out of the game. They cheered for me from the sidelines. Pete slammed the ball to my left, then over my head, then next to my knee. I escaped every pitch. Pete wound up a great toss and let it go.

The dodgeball sped towards me, but so did a white, tan, and black ball of fur! I ducked from Pete’s pitch and got hit by a. . . puppy! He wagged his white-tipped tail against my blouse as I picked him up.

Where do you belong? I asked the pup as Pete and the kids crowded around me.

Let us see him, Carol Ann, chorused the kids.

Okay, I’ll put him down if you sit down and don’t pick him up. I kneeled so they could crowd around the pint-sized puppy. They petted his tan and white head, felt his dark floppy ears, rubbed the short fur on his black back, and tickled his white tummy. When the puppy turned over on his back, his short, white legs kicked wildly.

Pete kneeled next to me and said, Cute beagle pup. Looks just like my grandpa’s dog. I watched him run like a racer across your yard from back there. Pete pointed to Mr. Chester’s yard behind our back fence.

I said, Mr. Chester is the mean, old man who lives behind us.

Let me have the pup kids, so I can take him home. Pete picked up the pup and cradled him in his arms. Loud rock ’n’ roll music blared over the fence. The pup’s ears jerked up to listen. Lucky Pete had a yard full of teens helping Hawk restore his old car.

The teens functioned as a team and got greasy and grimy. Usually, Tim painted while Ernie hopped up the engine.

Fire it up! someone yelled.

Punch it! An engine roared loudly. VROOM, VROOM, VROOM blasted over the fence.

My brother’s turning an old 1937 Ford two-door sedan into a hot rod with a chopped top, said Pete. That’s when they cut the top off, chop the window openings down, and weld the top back onto the car. That Ford with its slantback will look cherry. Hawk’s fixing it up real neat. He replaced the old, sixty-horse-power stock engine with a Ford Flathead V8.

I can’t wait to see it restored, I said. "It sounds good."

Hawk and Ernie and Tim are so hip. . . you know. . . with it. They cruise cool roads like Route 66. They see the latest movies at El Monte Drive-in Theater. They drive to Dan’s Diner to order burgers with fries and triple-thick chocolate shakes. And sometimes they take me.

You’re lucky to have a hip, older brother who works on cars, I said as the song Tra-La-La by Pat Boone drifted