Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? Me!

The stuff of my childhood nightmares!

I’ve already touched upon how Cheryl used to scare Kenna and me with music. But that was far from the only thing that frightened me as a child. I daresay was the biggest scaredy-cat the world has ever known, and it wasn’t just normal kid stuff that scared me. Oh I was afraid of those things, don’t get me wrong. Spiders, bugs, snakes, the dark, the boogeyman, monsters under the bed or in the closet – they were all horrifying. But my childhood list of “Things That Make Me Jump, Scream, Cry, or Give Me Nightmares” included some not-so-common fears as well.

For instance, I was afraid of railroad tracks. It wasn’t just trains, although if a train was passing by I could be found cowering in the back seat with my hands clamped over my ears and my eyes squeezed shut. If that sucker was going to jump the track and land on our car, I didn’t want to see it happen. But even if there was no train in sight, the tracks themselves sent me into a tizzy. If I was crossing them in a car I was fine, and most of the time I could even ride my bicycle over them if I was going fast enough. But walking across railroad tracks was a different story. I would stand at the side of the tracks, look both ways, take a deep breath, chicken out, and start all over. I couldn’t explain why the trainless tracks scared me so much. Mom had a theory that I watched too many cartoons but I didn’t buy that.

This fear posed a serious problem when the neighborhood kids wanted to walk to Harvey’s Grocery to buy candy. Harvey’s was only four or five blocks down the street, but we had to cross train tracks to get there. I would try to convince one or two friends to hang back with me until I summoned enough courage to cross, but eventually they would tire of waiting and leave me standing there yelling after them, “Wait up, you guys! WAIT!” Now I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Do I cross alone and risk a train appearing out of nowhere to flatten me, or do I miss out on the Lik-M-Aid and Sixlets that awaited me just the other side of the tracks? By now my pleas were broken by sobs of fear and abandonment. “WAAAY-HAAAAY-HAAAAY-HAAAAAATE!” But it fell on deaf ears and my friends kept walking. In the end, the candy would win out and I would run across the tracks as fast as my little legs would go, crying the entire way. Thankfully, the sugar coursing through my veins usually kept my fear at bay on the return trip and I would make it back across with minimal drama.

I was also deathly afraid of the tornado sirens, even more than the impending tornado itself. No matter where I was or what I was doing, I would drop everything and clamp my hands over my ears the second they started. One afternoon I was at dance lessons with Kenna and her friend Suzie. Mom showed up early and told us we had to leave because there was a storm headed our direction. Kenna kept telling me to get my stuff so we could leave, but I was unaware of the urgency and continued to dawdle. As I finally approached her with my bag in hand, the sirens began their slow wail of warning. In true Paula fashion I froze, screamed, and jammed my fists over my ears. Unable to wait any longer, Kenna and Suzie each grabbed an arm and carried me between the two of them down the stairs and out to the car. My feet never touched the ground.

If the tornado was close enough to force us into the cellar, that was even worse. Not only did the sound of the sirens travel through the vents above us and echo off the walls, but I also had to deal with spiders and bugs, all in a state of semi-darkness. To my fragile constitution, it was a living nightmare. There were times when I would rather have stayed above ground to face the tornado than descend into the depths of the cellar in our backyard and confront whatever awaited us there. To this day, I would rather chase a tornado, or run from it if need be, than to go underground.

Windows at night were another fear of mine. I didn’t mind windows during the daytime hours, but at night they were portals of evil. I can recall, before our household had a dishwasher, having to wash dishes on winter nights when it would be dark before I even began the chore. I would try my best not to look up from the soapy water into the darkness of that window above the sink. The idea of an unseen someone, or someTHING, watching me through the window made my heart race. Even worse was the thought of looking up to find a face staring back at me. Occasionally my own reflection would create a momentary panic. I’m surprised I managed to finish the dishes on those dark winter nights. Even now, my blinds and curtains have to be completely closed before nightfall. If there’s something out there, I don’t want to know!

Aside from the all-encompassing fears of train tracks, tornado sirens, bugs, spiders, and darkness in all its forms, I have some very specific memories of strange things that scared me. I recall one episode of Gilligan’s Island that frightened me terribly. (Pause here while laughter subsides.) In the episode “And Then There Were None,” Gilligan dreams that he is a Doctor Jekyll/Mr. Hyde character. Doctor Gilligan is put on trial for suspicion of being the murderous Mr. Hyde, and during the course of the trial he actually morphs into the monster as Ginger calls out names of different foods.

As this episode aired, I was lying on the floor with my feet in Mom’s lap while she attempted to remove a splinter. The sight of Gilligan transforming into the hairy, werewolf-like Mr. Hyde was so alarming that I had to turn away from the television. Even then, the spooky music emanating from behind me kept me in a state of heightened fear. Of course I did what I always did when I was scared; I stuffed my hands over my ears and tried to focus on the sound of my breathing to block out the fright. Trying to look anywhere but at the TV, my gaze landed on Dad, who had been watching with much amusement. He made a goofy face and stuck his tongue out, sending me into a fit of whining and crocodile tears in hopes that Mom would scold him for his mockery.

Kenna, having learned well the tricks of the older sister trade from Cheryl, knew that the easiest way to get rid of her pesky little sister was to scare her. She often had slumber parties in the pop-up camper in the back yard or in the den that Dad had converted from what was once a detached garage. These were perfect for such occasions because, being separate from the actual house, Mom and Dad could have their peace and quiet, while Kenna and her friends could easily sneak out once the adults were asleep.

Of course teenagers can’t sneak out with a little sister in tow, so they had to first get rid of me, and there was no better way to ensure I would stay away than to give me a proper scare. First they would engage in a few rounds of “light as a feather, stiff as a board” or bust out the Ouija to tap into the spirit world and play on my fears of the paranormal. If that didn’t work, although it usually did, they would then suggest telling ghost stories with nothing but a flashlight to illuminate the room. Occasionally they would go straight for the granddaddy of all scares, a little game called “murder in the dark,” which involved turning the lights off completely. I would high-tail it back into the house at the mere mention of this game, as the prospect of it scared me enough to make me brave the dark backyard on my way in. And thus the girls were free to sneak around the neighborhood without Paula the Pest ruining their fun.

But none of these things compare to the night we were tormented by a couple of neighborhood boys while Mom and Dad were out. It was a typical Saturday night for us at that age. Mom and Dad were gone, Kenna was in charge, and we both had a friend over to stay the night. I was happily snacking away on a dill pickle. We had just finished watching The Love Boat and Fantasy Island was coming on. It would still be an hour before either parent returned home. I don’t recall who heard the noise first, but someone shushed us so we could all listen. There was a faint tapping on one of the windows, followed by a scratching noise down the front of the screen door. Our dog Elvis began barking in the backyard. Kenna whispered for someone to lock the back door as she crept toward the front door which was thankfully already locked. She peered out and reported back to us that there were two guys outside with pantyhose over their faces.

I just knew it was the end for us and I began to cry. Kenna put her hand over my mouth and commanded me to be quiet so I wouldn’t give away our position in the house. Then she directed us all into the bathroom. Without turning on the lights, she shut and locked the door, leaving us in complete darkness. We armed ourselves with the only things we could find: a toilet brush and a plunger. Maybe we could scrub them to pieces or suction their faces off if they found us! We huddled together on the bathroom floor in silence and darkness long after the boys gave up and left us in peace. We didn’t venture out until we heard Mom’s car in the driveway. As we stood up and turned on the light, I realized I was still holding the pickle I’d been snacking on. In my state of worry, I’d managed to squeeze out all of the juice and most of the pulp and I was left with the shriveled skin of half a pickle. I held my hand out to the group of terrified girls. We all looked at it for a moment and suddenly our tension exploded into fits of laughter.

This legitimate scare did nothing to help alleviate my more unreasonable fears. But more than that, it provided me the first tangible example of how valuable a big sister’s protection was. In that long hour on the bathroom floor, I learned that even though we may say or do things to hurt each other during a sibling argument, my big sisters would always be there to protect me when push came to shove.

That sense of security was always there for me, even into adulthood. I knew if I needed something, my sisters would be the first to step up to the plate, and I did my best to return that favor to them. When Kenna was diagnosed with cancer in 2007, that sense of security began eroding away. By the time she died nearly three years later, it was almost completely gone. I still have Cheryl and I still have Mom, for which I am absolutely grateful, but losing Kenna drove home the impermanence of everything in life, and of life itself.

I think that’s why, when I am occupied with the minutiae of work, or finances, or parenting, or everyday life, the pictures that play through my mind are those of the house on Dewey. Until it returns to the present day, that’s where I can find my security.