I have a haunting memory
that occasionally creeps into my thoughts and reminds me how fear can haunt a
child’s dreams. When we lived on Lemon Road, we had in our neighborhood a man
that would roam the streets. I never knew what his real name was, but we
all called him “The Weasel.” He dressed in dark clothes, a trench coat clutched
tightly around his small, skinny frame. I don’t recall his face; but I have an
image of him walking with his head down, a worn fedora on his head, his coat
held tightly against him.
It is seared into my soul.
We were told by our moms
to stay away from him – but no explanation was ever given. When we saw him, we
would RUN like the wind to hide in the back yard or in our garages, convinced
he would steal us away if he could catch us.
It was at night when I was
trying to sleep in the cozy canopy bed my father made me that I would truly
fear The Weasel. I was convinced that he was lurking in the dark corners of my
room and I wouldn’t allow myself to fall asleep.
When I couldn’t take it
any longer, I would crawl out of bed, slide across the floor and sneak into my
sister’s room. If I was very careful I could sneak into her bed without her
even knowing. .(Fortunately for ME she is partially deaf, and wouldn’t always
hear my clumsy attempts.) I was awakened most mornings by her hitting me with
her pillow and yelling at me to “Stay OUT of my room!!!”
I amassed a number of
fears those early days as do many, many children of that age. I was afraid of
snakes, going over bridges, being in the dark, sleeping in my own room,
lightning, thunder, the Easter Bunny and my closet.
I can’t recall the precise
moment I left those fears of youth behind and slipped on that dangerous cloak
of invincibility. You know that cloak, don’t you? We’ve all worn it for a time.
It renders us fearless during those tumultuous and painful years of
adolescence. We try it on when we are perhaps twelve or thirteen, and we grow
into it- until finally it fits like a glove.
We wear it when we hop on
our bikes and zoom across town, and when we finally earn those car keys and
carry the lives of our friends and ourselves in our hands.
As we grow older, a
different kind of fear seems to slowly edge into our soul. The fear that every
parent, sibling or friend tries to keep buried inside – the fear of unexpected
pain and tragedy when something happens to someone we love. It starts as a seed
when you watch your child play with their toys, or when they learn to ride a
bike and cross the street. You know they will have a scrape or a bruise, and it
hurts to see them in pain.
That fear grows as they
do, and when instead of a bike you hand them the keys to your car then you know
real fear. It’s what we feel when they
have donned their own invincibility cloak. Only by now WE know it doesn’t work.
That knowledge that grips
my heart when I hand her the keys
to the car? I swallow it like a bitter pill, and pray that she will be
delivered back to me, safe and sound.
