RIVER CITY JOURNAL: THANKS TO A NEEDLE, IT'S TOO LATE FOR THE PEACHES COLUMN

When I went to get my flu shot this fall, Charlotte Craig, director of our county health center, was armed with a syringe.

Keep in mind that I have been known to pass out at the sight of a hypodermic needle, so Charlotte was taking quite a chance flashing one around in plain view.

As it came close to time for my shot, I managed to get my sleeve rolled up. Mostly I was trying to stay on my feet instead of collapsing on the floor.

Or, worse than that, upchucking in front of everyone.

Nearly 50 years ago, I barely managed to get the protection of Dr. Salk's incredible polio vaccine. My terror of needles was even stronger then than it is now.

You can just imagine what it was like to see all my classmates -- most of them were girls -- walk up to the nurse and get their shots without missing a beat on their chewing gum.

Not me.

I was outside in the parking lot wrestling with Death and Demonic Forces and goodness knows what else.

A few years ago my annual medical checkup coincided with flu-shot season. My doctor suggested that I, being of a certain age, ought to start getting the annual shots. When I blanched, the good doctor made his case by describing in some detail the horrors of gasping your last breath under the influence of the flu.

My doctor has a nifty way with words.

He did pretty much the same thing when he told me he could find no record of a tetanus shot in my medical history.

That's because I've never had tetanus, I told him.

He casually mentioned what tetanus does to your body. When he got to the part about lockjaw, I gave in.

In reality, it's not the shot itself that bothers me. I've actually developed a certain smugness about my bravery when it comes to injections. I'd say I'm about up to the level of a normal 8-year-old -- and climbing.

But Charlotte didn't know any of this when she said hello to me in the flu-shot line. She didn't know about my heroic struggle to remain upright and to keep my breakfast -- all of it -- where it belonged.

She may still be wondering why I acted so weird when she paid me a really nice compliment.

She recalled a column I had written right after Thanksgiving 1994. That was the year after Uncle Carl brought Aunt Norene to my mother's big Thanksgiving dinner. Aunt Norene had Alzheimer's and couldn't contribute any of her own cooking to the meal, so Uncle Carl brought what he could manage:

A can of store-bought peaches.

The next year at Thanksgiving time, Aunt Norene died. But that year's Thanksgiving dinner included store-bought peaches too. Some family traditions happen just like that.

Charlotte said she had saved that column about my uncle and the peaches. She suggested I should run it again.

I didn't.

I mumbled something in Charlotte's direction just to let her know I heard what she said. I tried to smile, but that needle was getting closer and closer.

This week Uncle Carl died.

The first thing I thought of when my wife gave me the news -- which was relayed from my mother who got the word from my cousins -- was that I hadn't heeded Charlotte's suggestion.

My wife has a thing about sending flowers and pretty cards to people, because she knows it makes their days a little brighter. She thinks taking the time to send little remembrances to real, live people is better than waiting for a funeral.

That's exactly what struck me when I heard about Uncle Carl: I didn't run that column about the peaches again.

So, Charlotte, I should have listened to your suggestion when I had the chance. Instead, I was worried about a shot. A flu shot. Something that doesn't even hurt. That's what I was thinking about instead of an elderly uncle bringing a can of peaches to a family get-together.

The lesson I've learned here is that I need to grow up. I figure there are a lot of needles in my future. That's the way we grow old in these times.

I hereby resolve to behave like a grown-up when I get my flu shot next year.

Well, maybe a mature teen-ager.

It's the least I can do for Uncle Carl.