The Worry-Wart, 1947

When I was about seven years old I was plagued by a wart infestation on my hands and arms. This was uncomfortable, not physically painful mind you, but undesirable in a social way. I had no idea why I should be cursed with that particular scourge. I was told that touching toads would cause warts, but I had not handled any such creatures. Brother Don was clean of warts, and none of the other family members were afflicted. So, why me? I do not remember anyone ever making fun of me or even bringing up the subject, but I was sensitive to it, and very self-conscience. I wanted them to go away. Mom took me to a doctor, and he removed a small torch-like instrument from his desk drawer. When he plugged it in a bright blue arc erupted at its tip. It popped and snapped when he trained it on one of my warts, creating a hurt that exceeded any social pain. The cure seemed a bit excessive and I feared my hands and arms might resemble charred stumps by the time all the warts were burned off. I let Mom know later that the Doctor’s methods resembled torture more than treatment, and I hoped to find a more benign cure.

Art Moore was to deliver my benign cure. He had come to visit my Grandma Frank in 1946. Art was my first cousin, once removed. His mother and my Grandmother were sisters. Art’s mother, Lydia, had been the oldest of a very large family, and Grandma had been the youngest. There were eight living siblings between them. Grandma was twenty-three years younger than her older sister, and so she was closer in age to her nephew Art, than she was to her sister. Art had been discharged only recently from the Navy. He had served on a ship in the Pacific during the War, and was now making the rounds, renewing family ties.

I remember Art as being an all-round round person. He had a round face sitting on top of a round body. His eyes were round and his glasses were round. He might have had a round belly later in life, but when he visited I think he was fairly solid. He was born and raised in Maysville, Kentucky. He was the youngest of four sons born to Lydia and John Moore, but he was still single when the war began and was one of the older enlisted men to have served. He married his home-town sweetheart a couple years later, after both his parents died in 1948, just three weeks apart from each other. Art was a nice guy. He was friendly and jovial. Though I only met him two or three times, I liked him right away, and never had reason to change my mind.

Art stayed with us for several days - maybe a week. A couple of days after he arrived, he noticed my warts and said, “Remind me before I leave, and I’ll take them warts off you”. He said nothing more for the rest of his visit, but I wasn’t about to forget. I don’t think I said anything more to him until the day came for him to leave. I could keep mum no longer, and reminded him of his promise.

Art Moore sat down at the kitchen table and ask Mom and Grandma if they had an apple. “No”, there was none in the house. “How about an onion?” “Yes”, a medium yellow onion was produced. Art cut a thick slice of the onion, and then proceeded to dice it into a number of small pieces. He rubbed a piece of onion on each of my warts - one onion chunk for each of the fifty warts. He would select a piece, ceremoniously rub it on a wart and then place the piece in a discard pile. He was very deliberate and precise in the procedure. It was ritual at its best. I was impressed. When he finished he told me that there was more to it than that, but he could not tell me. He had some excuse that Mom and Grandma solemnly agreed to - something about a man could not tell a man. Art told me I had to do one thing before the warts would go away. “What is it? What is it?”, I asked. He answered, “You have to forget about them”. He said they would not go away until I forgot about them. He left that day.

I had been told to forget the warts, and I found it nearly impossible to do so. The suggestion made me look at and think about the warts constantly. I looked at my hands, and studied them all that day. When I woke the next morning it was the first thing I did. That went on for a week or more. I was focused. I could not forget. Then one day, after a week had passed, I remembered that I had forgot to look. I looked at my hands and arms. The warts were all got, every blessed one of them - just like Art said they would.
THE END