The Sunday Memory Drawer - "Mom, I Don't Feel So Good"

It was a scene that was repeated countless times on multiple mornings. I'd wake up feeling shitty. And I would subject myself to my mother's careful examination.

Hand on the forehead. Hot or cold?

A peer down the throat. Red or scratchy?

Two hands feeling both sides of my neck. Glands swollen?

If I scored two of the three, I was home free. Literally. I could stay home from school. And, as an added bonus, I was ordered to get out of bed and move to the living room couch.

In front of the television.

Sweet!

First, I'd have to choke down a bowl of some H-O oatmeal, the "official breakfast of being home sick from school." Then, I'd flip on the TV and settle back for a day of some really tough recuperation.

In those days, daytime television was more fun. You had a bunch of game shows and sitcom reruns that I had never seen first run. All stuff I never got to watch at any other time.

And the fun started early. Er, cough, cough. There were odd cartoons on in the pre-breakfast hours. It was almost like the minor leagues of animation. They weren't good enough to make my prime cartoon time, which was after school. I remember Channel 7 in NY ran silent cartoons with this farmer and all these crudely drawn animals early in the day. Goofy stuff. Purchased off the back of the movie truck at a discount no doubt.

After that, a-choo, a-choo, there was the Little Rascals AKA Our Gang. They were my absolute favorite comedy shorts. I disconnected a bit on Spanky and Alfalfa, but the earlier ones with the likes of Farina, Jackie Cooper, and Wheezer were brilliant. I still watch them via DVD to this day. Forget all the allegations over how racist they were. This was a group of kids playing together, regardless of skin color or nationality. Just like my neighborhood. And I always enjoyed the great product placement for such wonderful household staples as castor oil, limburger cheese, and tabasco sauce. At the time, I had no idea what any of them were.

Around 9AM, my mother would pop in for another follow-up examination. Hand on the forehead. A peer down the throat. Two hands feeling both sides of my neck. This was a key moment in my day. If two of the three were still persisting after the amazingly curative powers of H-O Oatmeal had been administered, I was sunk. And probably really sick. This could mean only one thing. My mother would head to the telephone. And I would hear three very scary words.

"Hello, Dr. Fiegoli?"

Yep, these were the days when a kid's doctor made house calls. The key to getting him was to call before 10AM before he started off on his rounds. My mother never seemed to miss the deadline. Dr. Fiegoli was a frequent visitor to our house. At the very least, I'd have a few more hours of TV nirvana until he showed.

In the mornings of my stay-at-home maladies, I still exercised the same brain power I would have used at school. By watching game shows.

There was "Concentration."

"Number four. And number nineteen." Sorry, not a match.

"Say When." And I remember little of that game except that it was hosted by Art James.

"Eye Guess." Hosted by Bill Cullen, who I never could understand why you didn't see him walking around on the stage. Years later, I discovered the reason. He had polio.

"The Hollywood Squares" with my favorite comedian Paul Lynde. "Abby Dalton, you're today's Secret Square."

Mixed in with all the game shows were the wonderful sitcoms from the 50s. Of course, "I Love Lucy." But, there were other programs that I had only heard tales about from my grandmother and grandfather.

"December Bride." With one of my grandmother's favorites, Spring Byington. And this had a spin-off show that was also repeated during the day. "Pete And Gladys."

"My Little Margie." With Gale Storm and some old hag named Mrs. Odetts living next door and a Black elevator operator played by Willie Best.

"The Burns and Allen Show." George, Gracie, Harry Von Zell, and that magic TV mirror which allowed George to control the action. Perhaps the most ingenious gimmick ever featured on a television situation comedy.

Depending upon my illness, lunch would be usually a can of Campbell's Condensed Chicken Noodle Soup. Just add water. No fuss, no muss. If my throat wasn't a problem, a sandwich was in order. Usually bologna or my beloved Taylor Olive. On the side, six green olives stuffed with pimentoes. Not five, not seven, not four. Six exactly. This was my usual midday repast in both sickness and in health. Having consumed the meal, I'd lay back down and settle in for some more great television. Except...

DING DONG!!!!!!!!

Our front door bell was always more ominous if I was home sick.

The dog barked wildly. My mother would bound down the stairs to open the door.

"Hello, Dr. Fiegoli!"

Crap.

Now, my pediatrician was a really nice man. But he couldn't help but be scary to a seven-year-old. He'd charge up the stairs like a bull out of a chute. Plus he looked just like that actor who was showing up on all those sitcoms I had just been enjoying. Frank Nelson. Very unsettling as my two worlds were suddenly mixing in a bizarre way. And his booming voice could be heard from Mount Vernon to New Rochelle.

"OOOOOOH AND HOW'S THE PATIENT?"

Gee, Doc, isn't that what you're supposed to figure out? Well, that's probably what Mrs. Odetts might have said.

Dr. Fiegoli then administered the same exam that my mother had already done twice. Hand on the forehead. A peer down the throat. Two hands on both sides of the neck. Hello, do you get paid to do this?

The bad news is that most of the time Dr. Fiegoli showed up, I really was sick. Chicken Pox. Measles, both German and regular. Ear infection. Gland infection. He'd spend five minutes with me, fifteen minutes with my mother, and two seconds dashing off a prescription, which would get immediately filled at Mr. Post's drugstore.

It seemed like Dr. Fiegoli would never leave, but he always did. I'd turn back to the TV, but...

"No television now. You really are sick."

Damn.

I'd feign a nap for several hours in the afternoon. By then, daytime TV was full of soap operas which were captivating Grandma downstairs but boring the shit out of me upstairs. Eventually, I would inch my way back to the television controls. Because, when it was three o'clock, it was time for...

Popeye the Sailor. My favorite cartoon character of all time.

WPIX Channel 11 ran these in the afternoon, usually hosted by Captain Jack McCarthy, who was not really a captain but definitely Irish. They used to throw in as the host every year when they ran the St. Patrick's Day parade. I much preferred the Popeye cartoons from the 1930s. He was talking under his breath all the time and you had to listen closely to hear the best lines. The later ones from the 1950s were terrible. My rule of thumb: if Olive Oyl's hairdo is more modern, the cartoon sucks.

"IS THAT TELEVISION BACK ON?!!!"

Ooops. Cough, cough. I better go.

Dinner last night: Mongolian beef and honey walnut shrimp at Panda Inn.