I was in second grade when Miss Barzley came to town. Like little lambs, we were lined up single file in the hallway and shot one by one. I stood near the back of the line. Those who had gone on ahead filed by saying “OWWWW!” and clutching their arms.
Miss Barzley was an imposing figure, even without that long needle in her hand. She would have done well as a Sumo wrestler, but had gone into nursing instead. Her glasses were so thick she reminded me of a huge insect. “Roll up your sleeve. It won’t hurt,” she lied. Then she stabbed us.
Twenty-three years later, it was my son Stephen’s turn. I v...