I am holding a white enameled basin in my lap as I sit up in bed in the little downstairs bedroom reserved for when someone in the family is sick.

The town doctor comes to examine me. His diagnosis is scarlet fever, it is highly contagious, and I must be quarantined for a month. No one can come near me except my mother, wearing a gown, mask and gloves. I have been sentenced to solitary confinement.

A sign with a big red X and “Quarantined” in big black letters is posted on the front door and back door. My father is allowed to go to work, but my brothers and sister, although not infected, cannot go to school.

It is 1944, and sulfur drugs are the only available medication for this illness, as penicillin is not yet in widespread use.

My aunt waves at me through the window and brings me gifts. She is a real live fairy godmother who delivers brand new coloring books, crayons and paper dolls. At 9 years old, these are some of my favorite things. It is almost worth being sick. I amuse myself for hours with these presents. Even if I cannot leave the room, in my imagination my paper dolls can go to school, parties and bike riding.

In spite of my mother’s aseptic technique, my sister and two brothers contract the illness.

Being reunited with my siblings is not all bliss. They grumble that I carried the germ that made them sick, that I was a junior Typhoid Mary, but as for me, I am glad to have my playmates back again. When we are feeling better, to pass the time we read books, play checkers, Monopoly, Parcheesi and card games.

These games are always played with a fair amount of bickering. Accusations of cheating are numerous and persistent. We sound like a noisy colony of sea gulls squawking for scraps at a tourist trap. Somehow we always manage to make peace and get on with the game.

Mother goes industriously about her chores, ignoring the uproar we are creating. Her little brood is on the mend, and she knows where they all are.

How my mother coped with four sick, cranky children all at once is a marvel, but no whining was allowed, so that may have helped.

After the small epidemic at our house is over, everything has to be fumigated. We haul mattresses, books, things that could not be washed, out onto the lawn so the sun can kill the germs. As a last ceremonial act we burn the “Quarantined” signs.

When we return to school, our friends are intrigued by the fact we had been quarantined, and had survived a major illness. They are envious of our time off from school.

For a short time, we are minor celebrities and big wheels in the school yard.

Brief as it was, we enjoyed our little bit of dubious fame and our moment in the limelight.

Elaine Parker, long recovered from her bout of scarlet fever, lives in South Portland.