Reflections, The Building Blocks

Back a week now from vacation and still suffering from massive blogger bog. So new at this and already so stumped. It figures, over thinking is my specialty. What to type? Where to take the few of you who would show me mild interest? I know, lets take a look at what this trip to the beach managed to jog free in my brain, maybe even throw a few people under the bus.

While away I was continually pummeled about the face with reminders as to why my head is a magic bullet of baffling childhood memories, present day delusions and futuristic derangement. MY PARENTS WENT!

Don't get me wrong, without these two wonderful occupants of Pandora's box I would not be here and for that I am extremely grateful but I can't pretend for a second that the unsettled precarious nature of me, isn't a direct result of two, for lack of a better word, enigmas.

OK, lets rewind to 1980 for a minute or two. That's the year ground was broken for the foundation of the man who types before you today. Try to imagine yourself an eight year old and scared beyond comprehension time and time again from the horrific images of the big screen. Way too many to count. Oh how my parents loved the movies.

Persistent visions of Jack Nicholson plunging an axe into the chest of an unsuspecting Scat man Carothers stand at the forefront. (The Shining) Now imagine its late at night and you are alone in a house positioned at the edge of a waterway and a mysterious fog is rolling in off the water. Not long after visibility is drained to nothing, a slow deep resonating knock happens on the front door, thump like and heavy with horror. (The Fog) How about "Its Alive"? All I can remember of that, approved for all audiences gem, was a horribly deformed greenish grey hand with sharp nails dangling off the side of a baby carriage. When I'm flying up my steps from the basement, to this day, its that hand that comes through step #6 and grabs my ankle.

Still imagining you are eight? I could go on and on but I think you get the idea. As a matter of fact I'm typing this in a dark house, at 2am, and hearing all kinds of scary stuff! Basement is going unchecked before bed this night!

Anyway, Its funny what a child will do to reverse the effects of such images and combat the fear that lives inside. I can remember going to bingo with my mother on Friday nights to sacred heart church in Reisterstown and when we left the house I would close the big door making sure a piece of aluminum wrapper from a stick of Freedent gum (Mom's favorite) was lodged tightly in between the door and the jam.

I did this so when we returned I would know if someone was in the house. Wrapper on the floor meant inside was a man, waiting with a meat cleaver, wearing someone else's flesh as a sport coat. Wrapper still nestled, no worries. Or so I thought. Where was dad? Oh yeah, the bar!

Now, every Friday at 11:20pm we would return home, my heart thumping almost audibly and I would run up and check on the position of the wrapper in the door. Yet every week, just like clockwork, the wrapper held steady. Somehow I still found it in me to be certain that a robber, monster or raging homicidal saber fanged lunatic had gotten in past my Goddard space center rivaling defences.

Soon after entering the house and gently shuffle footing into the kitchen, I would tell my mother I saw a figure dart past the bottom of the stairwell and toward the unfinished section of the cellar. She would then say to me "Gary there is nobody downstairs, must we do this every week"? Funny how this half creature, half human, sweaty loose fleshed Houdini of a monster always knew to be at that very spot every Friday. I know because I saw him!

So every week I would convince mom to call my aunt who lived down the street. After running up to our house, with my uncle's long barreled Easton softball bat in tow, we would proceed to check the house thoroughly. Two woman, an eight year old with IBS and a cylindrical weapon of death. Creature didn't stand a f@%#ing chance! Now when the search party was finally called off, to bed I was supposed to go? Think mom would have laid down with me right? Uhhhhh, no chance. Shoot, more times than not she giggled at me. Parental compassion worthy of praise, don't you think?

Now I know back in the day parenting was a little more lenient and a lot of children saw scary movies but this stuff was obviously affecting me. I never even wanted to go into my own basement during the day and if I did, who do you think was waiting upstairs to yell "BOOGIES' GONNA GETCHYA" but my 20 year old brother and 13 year old monster of a sister.

Oh well, its funny what an O.C. trip with parents will dig up in ones brain huh. Now don't get me wrong, I love my parents dearly as I know they love me. Its just that over the years there have been some strange ways of showing it. A few other words come to mind but lets just go with liberally for now.

OK, now we know where my fear of being alone and darkness comes from so lets move on to the teenage years. Well maybe later.