Nope. There really is no other explanation for my mother’s behavior and habits than that she truly was scared witless.
Yeah. I kinda knew it, largely because part of her motherly teaching was that I should be extremely cautious and yes, always, always, ALWAYS lock all the doors and windows before going to bed at night.
To a degree, if you’re female, that’s just common sense.
But…no. Her terror went way beyond that.
She was convinced, for example, that some guy was going to stroll into their carport one evening, climb up on top of the car, hop through the attic opening, crawl across the rafters, take out a saw, cut a hole in the ceiling, and jump down into the house — there to have his way as he pleased. One evening, it became evident that this was real fear and not just some silliness she picked up out of a women’s magazine.
She showed up at my house to stay overnight on the TV room sofa. What did she bring with her?
A .38.
No kidding.
We get the bed made and, after watching TV half the evening, shut off the idiot box and head into the night. And out of her purse she pulls this GUN.
Y’know… You wouldn’t do that unless you were terrified. And you certainly wouldn’t do it in front of your daughter. In your daughter’s home.
That was the point at which I realized she wasn’t play-acting. She was genuinely frightened.
Had something happened to her in the past that made her that scared?
I kinda doubt it. If so, she would have said so. Oh, hell: she would’ve gone on at length about it.
No. She didn’t hide things like that.
Whether it was the ambient fear in our culture — which is real and does affect many women’s thinking — or whether something had happened to her, I do not know. But there’s no question that she was terrified. She wouldn’t have pulled a stunt like that if she weren’t scared half to death.
My parents’ house in Sun City did have a carport, not a garage with a door you could close. So that meant, of course, that your car and anything in that carport were exposed to the evening air…
AND…that carport’s ceiling had a hatch-type door, whose purpose was to let workmen in to fiddle with the wiring, the plumbing, the insulation, and the drywall in the attic.
She was convinced — apparently because she’d read about this happening to some other Sun Citizen — that somebody was going to climb on top of the car, open that door hatch, hop into the attic, make their way to the living room, saw a hole in the ceiling, and drop down into the house.
The better to rape some nubile 65-year-old, right?
Yeah. That’s what I grew up with.
That kind of thing has to affect you, over the long term. I don’t feel terrified. No: if I did, I wouldn’t live here alone in a four-bedroom house a mile south of a crime-ridden suburb and two blocks east of some very alarming apartments. But yes: I do remember it. I remember it as not just strange, but as fundamentally alarming.
As for my mother?
There really isn’t much explanation for the chronic terror that afflicted the last couple decades of her life.
* Don’t know if she was similarly scared when she was a young thing
* Don’t know if she’d ever been attacked, and so might have suffered the aftereffects.
* Yes, I do know there are a lot of sh!theads out there, but not so much as to require you to cower in terror behind locked doors and windows, with a pistol in hand.
And as for the local creeps, crooks, and nut cases?
* Dudes! Make. My. Day!
Cop helicopter overhead. Dayum! Am I tired of this routine or tired of this routine?
Well, lookee here.