Unsettled: 9 Years Old and Terrified of Boogie Men, Monsters, and WC Fields

Shortly before I turned 10 years old, I developed a fear of people breaking into our house.  I’m not sure where this came from or why, other than I likely saw a movie or a TV show episode depicting something like this that left an impression that refused to dissipate. As such, I had a routine every night before I got into bed; look inside my closet to make sure no one was hiding in there and also get down on my hands and knees to peer under my bed just in case a baddie was lurking amongst the dust bunnies and wayward plastic Barbie stiletto shoes.  Some nights I was so spooked that I’d repeat this several times.  On the worst nights, I’d start fretting that my parents had neglected to lock the front door and would climb out of bed, leave my bedroom, and roam the house checking and rechecking doors and windows.  The colder months were better than those tortuous warm nights when windows were left open to let in a cooling breeze.

That summer, my older sister and I went on our usual trip from my mom and step-dad’s house in San Diego, California to spend close to three months with my Father and step-mother, Margot, in Lafayette, Indiana.  When we arrived at the house from the airport, Margot had a surprise in store; they’d purchased a sofa sleeper for the TV room so that Ann and I would no longer have to share the bed in the guestroom.  Ann, who was 12 and more than ready to have a room all to herself,  was elated; I wasn’t so thrilled about it as this meant I’d be alone at night in somewhat unfamiliar surroundings.

Me with Father and Ann Summer 1973

That first night, and many subsequent ones were, frankly speaking, awful.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as though I was miserable throughout the day because I wasn’t.  Ann and I had a lot of fun with our companion (not babysitter) Judy during the week, and on the weekends, Margot typically had interesting or entertaining family activities planned.  But those nights, those nights I dreaded.  I’d start in on the dreading once it got dark, even if I wasn’t actually going to have to go to bed for several hours.  Like any kid, I’d try to find ways to prolong bedtime, but my reasoning wasn’t because I really desired to stay up longer, it was because I was terrified.

Once alone in the TV room with the door shut and securely locked, I’d pull out my bed, get the sheets and the blanket put on, and then commence my obsessive compulsive routine of determining that nothing had snuck its way into the room in the time I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth.  I’d open up the closet, poke around all the winter coats and sweaters to see if there was a person (or monster) in there; then, look under the sofa bed for the same (this despite the fact that not five minutes before there had been no bed, so how something could have crept under it with me standing right there apparently did not dawn on my 9 year old self). 

Then, I had to deal with WC Fields.

My Father was a great fan of that old movie star; although movie star doesn’t exactly describe that scary looking grouchy old geezer who (allegedly but not in actuality) hated children.  In any case, someone gave my Father this statue of WC.  It was made of something heavy and, admittedly, painted in such a way that it really did look like him; nattily dressed, complete with a very tall top hat.   It was about a foot  and a half or so tall and was creepy enough looking in its own right, however I’d recently seen a horror movie about dolls coming to life in the middle of the night and killing their owners, so good old WC was not only creepy, he was also a threat.

WC had to go.  Of course, I couldn’t actually get rid of him so I did the next best thing, I hid him.  In the closet.  Which meant that, several times a night before I finally fell asleep, I had to get up and check the closet to make sure he hadn’t become animated; and then, for good measure, look under the sofa bed just in case he’d somehow managed to open the closet door and slide under there and was waiting to burn out my eyeballs with the cigar he was wielding. 

The Terrifying WC Fields Statue

So, night after night there I was, terrified of nonexistent evil people hiding in the closet and underneath my bed, and of a statue of WC Fields.

As if this wasn’t enough, one night at dinner my Father said something to one of our dinner guests about never locking the doors to the house.  He said it  along the lines of, “Well, you know you are always welcome here.  Just come on in, we never lock our doors”.  And, you guessed it. That very night, after checking that WC was still in his closet, I unlocked the door to the TV room and went out; commencing a very lengthy process of checking the three doors and the multitude of windows in the house.

So this went on for at least a week until during one compulsive sojourn, I happened upon my Father in the kitchen getting something to drink, alarming him and scaring me to no end.  The gig was up.  He asked me, “What are you doing?” so I told him.  After thoughtful consideration, he led me over to the couch and sat me down.  He sat next to me, looked me in the face and said something that was not strictly true, but made a big impression on me, regardless, “Amy, there are no G-damned criminals in Lafayette Indiana, and even if there were, they wouldn’t be coming into our house, and even if they did, they wouldn’t hurt us because I have a 22 gauge pump action shotgun that says they won’t”.  Say what you will about my Father’s approach to my anxieties, but after that conversation, I was never again quite so fearful while staying in that house. 

I even let old WC out of the closet.

What do my childhood fears have to do with a present day count down to my spiritual retreat?

Stay tuned!

Mrs. B

Top Ten Thankfuls: Two

Following on the heels of being thankful for my parents (and definitely intertwined) comes this post's thankful.

I Am Thankful For A Wonderful Childhood

Lately, I've been spending quite a bit of time with a huge box of old family photos that my mom loaned me so that I could scan them into the computer and put them on disks so each of my siblings (and my mom and dad) would have them.  I'm really glad that I'm doing this, not just because some of the pictures are aging and otherwise might be eventually lost, but also as it's providing me with a very enjoyable trip down memory lane.  

I just finished scanning in 1983, which was the year my younger sister Kathy graduated from high school.  That summer, she I and moved out of the family home into a small one bedroom apartment near San Diego State University where we both were attending college.  I was nineteen, she was eighteen, and while there were definitely trying times ahead of both of us, I can see now that we'd flown from a very loving and supportive coop.  Later that year, our mom and dad and two younger brothers moved to the LA-area; leaving Kathy and I to truly fend for ourselves.  Thankfully, we had a firm foundation.

The memories these pictures I am working with evoke are 99% happy memories.  Those that are not, such as seeing a snapshot of my Uncle Bill, knowing that he was tragically killed  shortly after the picture was taken when he was 18 years old; or one of my Grandpa looking sad, confused and bereft in a nursing home where he lived out his last years suffering from Alzheimer's Disease, are ones that every person has in some form or another.  Other memories that may not have been so happy while they were going on, like the time I got into a lot of trouble for doing something potentially (but unknowingly) illegal when I was in fourth or fifth grade or the (thankfully) brief stint when we lived in Lexington, KY; I now view as vital to the development of my personal character.  And, in hindsight, Kentucky wasn't ALL that bad since we were closer to my Father and step mom and other extended family during those nine months, plus my sixth grade year spent in the Lexington school system is when I really learned how to learn.

When I think back on my childhood; from infancy (where I obviously must infer from the look on my face in those early pictures that I was happy) to when I left home in August of 1983 (technically an adult but still a teenager at 19), I find "good stuff"!  Such as, grandparents, cousins, family gatherings, tradition, birthday parties, Christmas presents, road trips, new adventures, brothers and sisters, friends, neighbors, effective school teachers and interesting classes, scouts, sports, swimming pools, cherished pets, family fun, a bit of a jet-setting lifestyle, best friends forever, dating, boyfriends, accomplishment, high school graduation; well, you get the picture!

Perhaps I was lucky that I lived during an age where kids were expected to go to school, do their homework when they got home from school, but were then turned out to have whatever fun with whatever friend that they could squeeze in those few hours before the dinner bell rang.  Summer evenings were the best; we'd stay out until dark playing in the safe environment of our cul de sac; football, Frisbee, softball, roller skating, skate boarding, or even a board game spread out on someone's driveway.  And then there were long afternoons floating around in our swimming pool, getting a tan, eating watermelon, gossiping with my sister and my friends.  Later, we took bus rides (that took seemingly forever) down to one of San Diego's many lovely beaches.    Of course, how great was is that I grew up in San Diego?  Pretty darn terrific.  

Yet, as much as I loved California, I also relished the times I'd fly "back East" to visit with my Father and step mom as there was an equal amount of excitement and adventure to be had in those months as well.  We'd go on road trips to visit my grandparents on their farm in upstate NY; sometimes we'd take other trips to other destinations as well; including a memorable journey to an amusement park in TN.  Sticking around wherever they  lived wasn't any bad shakes either as there was always something cool to do in Lafayette, Boston or Cleveland.  When I was sixteen, I experienced one of the singular most memorable summers of my life with a trip to England with Father and Margot and then my BFF coming to spend the rest of the summer with us in the Boston area (ah...but this is likely to end up on the Top Ten Events Of My Life So Far List!)

Before it appears that why WOULDN'T I have loved this childhood because everything was all fun and games, I should and will stress that I had my share of discipline, requirements, restrictions, rules, chores, obligations, responsibilities, onerous tasks, hard work, lots of studying, the usual teen aged drama, pimples, unrequited crushes on unattainable boys, missing my Father, missing my mother, missing my friends, not getting what I wanted, getting yelled at, etc., etc. BUT this is all part of childhood, is it not?

In the end, what those niggling issues did is simply enhance the sweetness of the rest of it.  And, things didn't have to be extravagant to be wonderful.  The quieter times spent with family celebrating a birthday; or making a elaborate French dinner together, dressing up in our roles of waiter or maid; or playing unending games of Euchre or Gin; or sneaking in to see an R-Rated movie with my sister and our friends; or my senior prom. The list goes on longer than the pictures would if I were to line them up end to end.

If I seem to be gushing a bit, I am.  But, I won't apologize for being thankful for such  a blessing, or the fact I was  able to  share  it with so many people; parents, siblings, friends and loved ones, who were, and who remain, dear to me.

Mrs. B

Road Trip to Springfield Missouri: Why On Earth Did We Go, Anyway?

Quite a few people raised eyebrows in inquiry when I said my mom, my dog and I were headed off on a road trip with the destination being a small town in Missouri! Actually, our REAL destination was to an even smaller town about 45 miles east of Springfield; Mansfield. Especially since this meant a total of four days of FULL driving (roughly 500 miles each day); all of this for one day in a dinky little town?

But, in actuality, it was a Mecca, of sorts, for a person such as me; who’d grown up reading books written by a certain Laura Ingalls Wilder, “The Little House Books”, as they are fondly known. The books, semi-autobiographical in nature, tell the tale of Laura’s childhood, teenaged years, young adulthood and her first four years of marriage. Her family, comprised of her Pa, her Ma and her sisters Mary and Carrie, were one of the original pioneer families, traveling from the big woods of Wisconsin (near a town called Peppin) to Kansas, Minnesota, and, eventually, settling in a very tiny town in South Dakota called De Smet (this was before SD was a state; the area was known as “The Dakota Territory”). I have since found out that the Ingalls’s actually somewhat ping-ponged back and forth from WI to KS, back to WI, to MN, on to IA (which is never written about in Laura’s books), back to MN and finally to SD; I suppose this would have been too confusing for young readers to follow.

Carrie, Mary and Laura Ingalls

Laura’s books are full of interesting tales of adventure, plus, simple normal things like not getting along with your older sister and being naughty and always looking forward to Christmas. The theme of the importance of family and friends figure prominently, as do ones of working hard, being honest, studying to better oneself, and, a lesson her father taught her be his sheer determination in the face of a hell of a lot of

adversity; never, ever give up.

Ma, Carrie, Laura, Grace (Standing); Pa and Mary (Sitting) ~ 1894

Laura had to remember these lessons into her married life. The first four years of her marriage to Almanzo Wilder (whom she called Manly; he called her Bessie (this is another factoid not really mentioned in her books)) were full of trials.

Laura and Almanzo Shortly After Their Marriage ~ 1885

Their stint at farming was not overly successful. They both became seriously ill with diphtheria; Manly was in essence semi-paralyzed as a result (this mostly because he went back to work far too soon). Their infant son died unexpectedly two weeks after his birth (he remained nameless and is buried somewhere near De Smet); leaving them with just one child, a highly intelligent but extremely precocious and trouble-prone daughter named Rose (who figured prominently, it is believed, in encouraging her mother to write her books; some say she was actually the one who wrote them (this I don’t believe)). Rose did turn out to be an accomplished journalist and author in her own right; in fact, she was the oldest journalist sent to cover the Viet Nam war in 1968.

Rose Wilder Lane As An Adult

The straw that broke their particular camel’s back was when their small farmhouse burnt to the ground (courtesy of a kitchen fire started by Rose). They all survived the fire but with only a few meager possessions to their name (some of which are on display in the museum at Mansfield).

Due primarily to these catastrophes but also to Manly’s poor health, the Wilder’s decided to move South. They tried living in Florida (somewhere in the Panhandle) for roughly a year but that was a complete disaster (Laura found the people there “distasteful” and the humidity wrecked havoc on her). They moved back to De Smet and lived with Laura’s parents for another year before deciding to move to “The Land of the Big Red Apple”, Missouri.

They left De Smet for good in the summer of 1894 along with daughter Rose and another family also headed to that general area. In Laura’s traveling lap desk (which Manly had made for her), they tucked away a $100 bill; their life savings; what they hopefully intended to use as a down payment on a suitable farm property in Missouri, assuming that they could find one to their taste.

It took them about six weeks to travel (by hack) to the area they eventually made their home for the rest of their lives; a small but promising town in the Ozarks of Missouri called Mansfield. It was here that Laura eventually wrote her books (8 in total; the last one in the series, “The First Four Years”, was published after her death and was based on a diary they found in her possession at the time of her death which she apparently kept during the early years of her marriage to Almanzo).

They built the farmhouse one room at a time as they could afford to do so. By the time it was done, it was quite the show piece in the neighborhood. For folks that had started their time in Mansfield in relative poverty, they’d really gone far; this success due to the productivity of their farm (apple orchards, other fruit bearing trees, cows, sheep, pigs, chickens and crops) came well before Laura’s achievements as a world-renown author.

Laura and Almanzo At Rocky Ridge Farm 1940

Before she wrote her books, she did, however, write for the local newspaper; highly entertaining little articles full of helpful hints and advice. This book, now available entitled “Little House in the Ozarks”, reminds me of a compilation of modern-day Blog entries!

The Wilder’s lived on their farm until their respective deaths; Almanzo in 1949 at age 92 and Laura in February 1957 just three days past her 90th b-day. For a woman who’d lived such a life of adventure and import, she died peacefully in her sleep in her farmhouse in Mansfield. The curators of the houses and museum on the property informed us that, as much as possible, everything in the house is as it was the night Laura died, down to and including the calendar hanging in the kitchen turned to February 1957.

Laura In Her Sixties

Laura Autographing Her Books For A Group Of Children

So, yes, this WAS a Mecca of sorts for me. A girl who grew up reading these books; and, in fact LEARNED to read on these books. My mom and dad told me that they recall me sitting in a quiet part of our house in San Diego, probably at age 6, reading one of her books out loud; sounding out the words as I went. My dad told Mr. B I used to come to him to ask him what certain words meant. So, in this way, my parents also “read” Laura’s books. It was fitting, then, that my mom came along with me on this special trip.

Mrs. B

Coming Soon: We Depart On Our Adventure!