Martha Johnsen, long-time radio personality, once mentioned that every time she enters the San Miguel County Courthouse, a flood of memories returns. She noted that the building has a certain odor, and, as I recall, she speculated as to whether the smell came from floor wax, disinfectant, paint or other source.

     Johnsen’s speculations are all worth noting, but she overlooked the smell of rubbing alcohol. I don’t have any scientific proof that alcohol releases a torrent of memories for me, but I trust this aging, perceptive proboscis.
     My last visit to the courthouse was yesterday, and the smell returned. Unlike lots of people, a scent instantly transports me to a particular time of my life. Cleaning out a bedroom after my parents passed away, I came across an old bottle of Mennen’s Skin Bracer, a cologne that I wore while in high school, once I started shaving. I wondered, what did my older sisters use? Womennen’s?
     For a few minutes yesterday I found myself timesported to the courthouse, circa 1946. This week, every summer, was what Mom would call “Our Special Day,” when she and Dad led us to the courthouse for our yearly vaccinations. The threat of typhoid and polio was everywhere, and we faced the prospect of a yearly shot in August, or if we missed one year, three of them on consecutive weeks the following year. The offices of the health department in those days were in the main building.
     Preparing for a royal wedding was simple compared to the much ado over arranging our vaccinations. For weeks in advance, Mom would prime us, describing how it’s our civic duty to get vaccinated, how it will insure our health, and—especially—if we don’t get our shots, we might all end up like . . . (and here she would insert the name of a person none of us liked.)
     Anticipation of the regimen put a pall on summer vacation. Sure, we enjoyed our summers, but where was always the fear of having the needle break in two while inserted six inches into one’s biceps or of passing out.
     This week in August was always the hottest on record—the temperatures would soar to the high 80s, which only old-timers can really appreciate. The high 80s in Las Vegas today would represent a cold spell. But back to the pilgrimage. Dad would borrow one of Werley Autos’ “better used cars” and the seven of us would pile in. We knew we’d arrived when he noticed several signs in the building that read: “Do not strike matches on the wall or spit on the floor.”
     The procedure was from oldest to youngest. The oldest, Dolores, had to set the example, and no matter how much anguish she felt, I always felt comforted by her demeanor. The second-oldest, Dorothy, usually got through okay, determined to be as brave as Dolores.
     The third in line, Severino, made the procedure insufferable. Regardless of how much it may have hurt him, he had to act as if he’d loved it. His attitude—solely for my benefit—was “I could stand 20 shots a day; in fact I enjoy them.”
     By the time the nurse got to the next-oldest, Bingy., the dam had broken. She would start the waterworks and explain to Mom, who was being very unsympathetic, “I’m not crying because I’m afraid; I’m crying because I want to.”
     That meant the “baby of the family,”at age 7 or 8, was last. I don’t know whether observing four vaccinations before mine filled me with shock and awe or “shucks and ouch.” In the time it took to perforate the arms of my siblings and get to me, the otherwise sympathetic nurse was transformed into a prop-man for Dante, a henchman for Hitler, a girlfriend of the Gestapo, an instigator of the Inquisition, a colleague of Caligula, a heart-throb of Atilla the Hun and a sweetheart to Sadaam. Her previously pale, smooth arms somehow grew tattoos that read “Born to raise hell” and “No pain for you, no fun for me.”
     She appeared to back up to get a running start, medication pouring out of the hypodermic by the quart. And the needle took on the size of a garden hose. She reached her target with the skill of a medieval jouster.
     I steeled my nerves, determined to show my older brother I could take it. Mom kept uttering reassuring phrases like “there’s nothing to worry about,” “stop being such a baby,” “nobody ever died of a vaccination” and “I’ll give you a reason to cry.”
     But the worst part was the in-your-face attitude of my brother, watching my every expression and praying that I would turn out to be less macho than he. That would give him an excuse, a kind of coupon that he could cash in any time. If I had a nickel, rather than being reminded of my poorformance at the courthouse, I would gladly transfer it to his pocket.
     The ordeal was mitigated by the promise of ice cream at what used to be Delgado’s Drug Store, now Plaza Drugs.
     That, then, is my recollection of the San Miguel County Courthouse. There’s always discussion of tearing down this decades-old landmark and replacing it with a modern, no-nonsense-smelling edifice. But no matter what, the residual odor of rubbing alcohol will forever remain in my mind. And if Martha Johnsen had been part of that yearly trek to the courthouse for her own “Special Day,” she might agree the smell comes from alcohol, not disinfectant, paint or anything else.