In an ideal moment, I would be sitting on a porch of a home I designed the floor plan of, with family and friends, furballs at my feet, eating Mexican food followed by something chocolate, while laughing in a fabulous pair of shoes, pondering the great mystery that is life, as the sun sets.
When I visited Kentucky in the summer as a child, I spent my time between Granny and Papa’s house and Grandmother’s house. Because I didn’t have any cousins on my Mom’s side of the family at the time, I often requested that my cousin Lauren come with me to play at Grandmother’s house.
Naturally, we spent a lot of time playing with barbies and babydolls. Occasionally, however, I took it upon myself to tell my poor cousin Lauren a story about Grandmother’s old house.
One day, I made up some absurd story that there was a clown trapped in this door. I told Lauren that the clown died in there, which made the glass wavy, and that its spirit haunted the house.
I really don’t understand what my logic (if any) was in crafting this highly plausible tale, but cousin Lauren seemed to eat it right up.
I think it is relevant that the telling of this story coincided with my Nancy Drew phase.
Although it seems my goal here was to freak out my cousin, I was most successful in freaking myself out.
That darn door still gives me the creeps to this day.