My Childhood Fear

I promised a while ago I would reveal the fear of bigfoot that stayed with me well into my technically adult years. No, I don't have big feet. They're actually quite small. I really make out like a demon at shoe sales. My fear was all about bigfoot, sasquatch, yeti. And it's all my parents fault.

This all began when the lot of the Jordan clan lived in Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin. Sounds quaint and lovely, doesn't it? It was, except for the children. Richard Rice, I remember you! You beat the crap out of me and chased me almost everyday on the way to school! You threw my party shoes (which I called pahty shoes) into the mud! A pox on you!

I hated that school, too. My teacher (Mrs. Hathaway - you evil, child hating muggle!) had a naughty chair and she made me sit in it on my birthday (I had turned 6). I broke it but not on purpose! Until that year I was a rather happy go lucky, cheerful kinda kid. That day, which is burned into my psyche, I had just put my hand down on the edge and it came away in my hand. The minute I heard the splintering wood and looked down, I could feel the red creep over me and the deep knowledge of trouble to come made me ears ring. I knew I'd catch it and did I ever! I cried all the home and when my mom and aunt saw me crying, this is what they told me: If you cry on your birthday, it means you'll cry the rest of the year. That did nothing to help. I was a wreck. God, I hate birthdays.

Anyway, we lived in a house that I loved. Lots of open space to run, crooks and crannies to hide in and a basement that was a pure kid zone. The whole thing was really a giant fort not made and no
one over 3 feet tall dared enter it for fear of backache.

One night, the summer before my terrible birthday experience, we we're all splayed about in the living room watching television, or the evil time stealer, as I like to call it.

There was a show my parents were very interested in watching on bigfoot. When asked, my parents explained this phenomenon as being something benign that I needed worry about. They wouldn't let me watch otherwise, would they?

We watched as a scene was developed; a true life story here re-enacted for our viewing pleasure. It is late in the evening and a women sits, alone, in her living room, reading a book. She has her legs tucked under her and this book is some great book, I'll tell you, because even when this weird shadow passes behind her in the huge bay window, she's only mildly interested. Just a little peek and nope! Everything's good.

Suddenly, a great, hairy arm crashes through the glass next to her and grabs at the lamp and then her. She screams, stands up, screams some more and runs to the hallyway by the stairs. Her husband comes barreling down the steps. She frantically tells him what has happened and, testosterone personified, he heads for the front door to check this wild story out. He opens it wide and standing there, with this huge Neanderthal brow and big hairy arms (I couldn't see the feet) was the creature.

By now, Dianne and I are terrified. And we were not easily mollified. It's just a story. Yeah, right. A re-enactment of a true story. It was just a guy in a costume. When she saw it? Go watch tv in the kitchen. OK.

Dianne and I huddled up in the kitchen, watching the small black and white. Next to the suddenly huge kitchen window. She and I never looked at a window in the same way.