It seems that every family has it’s stories, myths, etc. that teach moral lessons. In John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire (a great book that should be read if it hasn’t already been), you have the story of Sorrow, the family pet that dies, gets stuffed, scares the grandfather into a heart attack, and is the only thing that survives a plane crash that kills the mother and youngest child. That family always remembers that Sorrow Floats. They also have the phrase, keep passing the open windows, in reference to a clown that commits suicide by jumping out of a window. Though they have an overtone of sadness and the macabre – they both still have life lessons imbedded. The first warning me that sadness will always occur within our life, but we will survive it; and the second encouraging me to never give up hope.
Now John Irving is a master story teller. So his little stories, family traditions are poignant, a bit wrenching, and classy. My family, well we have there’s nothing out there but cats in the garbage can.
When I was in the 4th grade, we lived in an old farm house that belonged to my Aunt Martha. It was a two-storied, ram-shackled building. I remember that we weren’t allowed to go upstairs. I distinctly recall that we were told that it was too dangerous – though in retrospect, I think that my mom just didn’t want more home area to clean. The floors were all hardwood and simply refused to clean. The underbelly of the house, as well as the porch, were the stomping ground for several feral cats.
It was during our stay here that I begin have the recurring nightmare about a giant electrical man chasing me and a few others. The people in the dream would also change. And of course the new faces would invariably be the ones who got caught and killed – my own private Star Trek episode if you will. And the electric monster was the same one that appeared at the beginning of the Spiderman and friends cartoon – the show with iceman and fire starter (who were X-men – though I didn’t realize that until recently). And as this house was a bit isolated, and in a small town, it got very dark.
Throughout my remembered life, I’ve had some difficulty dealing with the dark. Specifically being asked to move around in the dark – whether it be out in the hallway, outside, downstairs, upstairs – wherever. I’m going to want light- the more the better. I strongly suspect that the fear originated with the Big Foot movie that I saw when I was younger. Anyway, any time that I needed to walk anywhere after the sun set, I was thanking old general electric. If that meant turning on every light to go to the bathroom, or refusing to enter a room until I’d snaked my hand around to turn on the light, then so be it. The dark had too many shadows which became every nightmare that I’ve ever had.
One evening after dark in the ram shackled old country house, in the middle of no where, where blackness settled over dew covered grass blades like velvet (see – my brief attempt at being a true southern author), my mother requested that I take out the garbage. My return request was to wait until morning so that the sun was out and would chase all the vampires away. And it was denied. The threat of swarming insects, both flying and crawling, overruled my protest. Finally, I said that I didn’t want to go outside because it was dark. My mother turned on the porch like, like that solved something. Could she not see that the 12 watt bulb on the front porch barely cast a dim light on the top step. It didn’t light the path to the metal barrel where we burned our trash. It would barely provide me a beacon to return to the house safely from the 100 foot distance. What was I a special forces operator with night vision goggles. No! I was just a child and she was sending me out into dangerous territory, a night. Didn’t she realize that more people die at night than during the day – it’s true – they die at night because they can’t see the creepy crawlies that come out of the ground to grab their feet and drag them down into a dark tomb. But, being a rational, mature child, I merely pointed out that the light didn’t seem to reach the garbage cans. In fact, there were a good ten yards of space that was still pitch black between the rim of light and the trash can. And I felt, rightly so, that that was ten yards too many.
“There’s nothing to be scared of” were my mother’s comforting words. And because I was still young enough to believe that my mother couldn’t lie, I agreed to take the trash out. But she had to promise to stay on the front porch and watch me.
So, I began the long journey to the trash can. When I reached the end of the porch light, I took a deep breath and walked as fast as I could to the trash cans. Pride kept me from running. After all, I was in the fourth grade, too old to be visibly afraid of the dark. Finally, I reached the trash cans. The trees loomed over me, the crickets screamed at me to hurry. I flung back the lid and hurled in the trash bag. Instantly, a yowling, spitting, spewing monster hurled past me. I felt nothing but the cold icy wind as it rushed past me, I knew that I was going to die, this was the end, there was nothing left to do but…. RUN!!! And I did. Pride was no longer an issue. Did I cry? I don’t remember. Did I scream, I can’t imagine that I didn’t. I was terrified. All of my fears had been realized. I knew that Big Foot had somehow left his illegitimate baby in that trash can and he was coming out to kill me. Or maybe, it was those fuzzy trolls that lived under the stairs in that long forgotten movie. The were coming to drag me under the stairs. I didn’t know what it was, I couldn’t see it – IT WAS DARK!!!
When I finally reached the safety of the porch and it’s dim, pathetic little light, I turned to look behind me. The eyes of the creature glowed menacingly beyond the circle of safety. Then I heard it. The quiet, plaintive “mewl” and one of the stray cats emerged from the darkness. It hadn’t been anything but one of the cats in the garbage can.
My mother has since used this incident and the phrase “There’s nothing to be scared of but cats in the garbage can” in an attempt to allay my fears of the unknown. But I know better. There were monsters out there. They just disguised themselves as cats. And now, well, I carry a flash light.
Now John Irving is a master story teller. So his little stories, family traditions are poignant, a bit wrenching, and classy. My family, well we have there’s nothing out there but cats in the garbage can.
When I was in the 4th grade, we lived in an old farm house that belonged to my Aunt Martha. It was a two-storied, ram-shackled building. I remember that we weren’t allowed to go upstairs. I distinctly recall that we were told that it was too dangerous – though in retrospect, I think that my mom just didn’t want more home area to clean. The floors were all hardwood and simply refused to clean. The underbelly of the house, as well as the porch, were the stomping ground for several feral cats.
It was during our stay here that I begin have the recurring nightmare about a giant electrical man chasing me and a few others. The people in the dream would also change. And of course the new faces would invariably be the ones who got caught and killed – my own private Star Trek episode if you will. And the electric monster was the same one that appeared at the beginning of the Spiderman and friends cartoon – the show with iceman and fire starter (who were X-men – though I didn’t realize that until recently). And as this house was a bit isolated, and in a small town, it got very dark.
Throughout my remembered life, I’ve had some difficulty dealing with the dark. Specifically being asked to move around in the dark – whether it be out in the hallway, outside, downstairs, upstairs – wherever. I’m going to want light- the more the better. I strongly suspect that the fear originated with the Big Foot movie that I saw when I was younger. Anyway, any time that I needed to walk anywhere after the sun set, I was thanking old general electric. If that meant turning on every light to go to the bathroom, or refusing to enter a room until I’d snaked my hand around to turn on the light, then so be it. The dark had too many shadows which became every nightmare that I’ve ever had.
One evening after dark in the ram shackled old country house, in the middle of no where, where blackness settled over dew covered grass blades like velvet (see – my brief attempt at being a true southern author), my mother requested that I take out the garbage. My return request was to wait until morning so that the sun was out and would chase all the vampires away. And it was denied. The threat of swarming insects, both flying and crawling, overruled my protest. Finally, I said that I didn’t want to go outside because it was dark. My mother turned on the porch like, like that solved something. Could she not see that the 12 watt bulb on the front porch barely cast a dim light on the top step. It didn’t light the path to the metal barrel where we burned our trash. It would barely provide me a beacon to return to the house safely from the 100 foot distance. What was I a special forces operator with night vision goggles. No! I was just a child and she was sending me out into dangerous territory, a night. Didn’t she realize that more people die at night than during the day – it’s true – they die at night because they can’t see the creepy crawlies that come out of the ground to grab their feet and drag them down into a dark tomb. But, being a rational, mature child, I merely pointed out that the light didn’t seem to reach the garbage cans. In fact, there were a good ten yards of space that was still pitch black between the rim of light and the trash can. And I felt, rightly so, that that was ten yards too many.
“There’s nothing to be scared of” were my mother’s comforting words. And because I was still young enough to believe that my mother couldn’t lie, I agreed to take the trash out. But she had to promise to stay on the front porch and watch me.
So, I began the long journey to the trash can. When I reached the end of the porch light, I took a deep breath and walked as fast as I could to the trash cans. Pride kept me from running. After all, I was in the fourth grade, too old to be visibly afraid of the dark. Finally, I reached the trash cans. The trees loomed over me, the crickets screamed at me to hurry. I flung back the lid and hurled in the trash bag. Instantly, a yowling, spitting, spewing monster hurled past me. I felt nothing but the cold icy wind as it rushed past me, I knew that I was going to die, this was the end, there was nothing left to do but…. RUN!!! And I did. Pride was no longer an issue. Did I cry? I don’t remember. Did I scream, I can’t imagine that I didn’t. I was terrified. All of my fears had been realized. I knew that Big Foot had somehow left his illegitimate baby in that trash can and he was coming out to kill me. Or maybe, it was those fuzzy trolls that lived under the stairs in that long forgotten movie. The were coming to drag me under the stairs. I didn’t know what it was, I couldn’t see it – IT WAS DARK!!!
When I finally reached the safety of the porch and it’s dim, pathetic little light, I turned to look behind me. The eyes of the creature glowed menacingly beyond the circle of safety. Then I heard it. The quiet, plaintive “mewl” and one of the stray cats emerged from the darkness. It hadn’t been anything but one of the cats in the garbage can.
My mother has since used this incident and the phrase “There’s nothing to be scared of but cats in the garbage can” in an attempt to allay my fears of the unknown. But I know better. There were monsters out there. They just disguised themselves as cats. And now, well, I carry a flash light.
