One of the things I remember most clearly about being a kid is Dr. Horowitz.

 

He had dark rimmed glasses, gray hair and a kind voice. I thought he was ancient, but thinking back on it now, he was probably only in his 50s.

 

Although I wasn’t the patient, I spent a LOT of time that year with Dr. Horowitz.

 

My four-year-old brother had warts and my young mom was beside herself.

 

In those days she was so intensely (at times hysterically) worried about her children’s health that the pediatrician asked us to arrive for our appointments through a back entrance so she wouldn’t upset the people in the waiting room.

 

It was 1973 and every month or so, these flat, brown, warts were appearing all over my brother’s face.

 

Mom would load Ricky and I into her yellow Buick convertible and off we’d go to see Dr. Horowitz.

 

While she constantly worried about us dying, no one ever told her we could die in a car, so we stood in the back seat, arms up with the wind in our hair.

 

Tails wagging when we heard her keys jingle, we’d run to the car without any thought as to where we may be going.

 

I can see my brother sitting on the exam table being so brave as each wart was burned off his little face.

 

No matter what they tried, the warts came back.

 

On one visit, instead of herding us into an examining room, a nurse took my brother off to pick a prize and along with my mom, I was invited into Dr. Horowitz’s private office.

 

He had an idea – and I was going to get to be a part of it.

 

“Go home,” he said.

 

“Tell Ricky I’ve discovered that only magic can cure these warts and then hold a special ceremony. Let’s see what happens.”

 

We’re a pretty creative lot, my family.
And if you haven’t guessed already – we can be dramatic.

We also had a completely crazy Sicilian grandmother waiting for us at home.

 

The ceremony we threw could have headlined in Vegas.

 

There was fire.

A “grave” was dug for the warts.

There were feathers and oil and garlic.

My grandmother had some crazy thing tied to her head made of black ribbons and my mother banged on the macaroni pot with a ladle.

 

The job I gave myself was to run around the whole thing – my brother in the middle – shrieking and tossing glitter while Grandma Annie muttered curses in Italian.

 

Within a week the warts were gone.

 

They never came back.

 

Maybe we’re not as smart as we think we are.

Maybe what we know for sure isn’t true after all.

Maybe being a grown up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

 

Maybe…what we believe matters.