Much of life, it seems, we got right in childhood. We “grow up” only to learn that others are always right about any multitude of things. Then you reach an age when you realize, “I was right the first time.” All of which is to say I’ve been thinking about my childhood. It has some commonalities with horror writers who are well known, but even us obscure, private intellectuals experience similar things. I was a middle child of three for about a decade. My father was of the absentee variety and my mother, like most women, had greater coping skills than she realized. But the fact is, with three kids there’s no way to keep an eye on them all at the same time. I always felt my big brother got the privileges first and they were sometimes forgotten when it was my turn. And my little brother got special attention for being youngest. I developed that middle child mental map.
One day I was playing with the cheap microscope my mother had bought for us. As kids, one of my fantasies was that I’d grow up to be a scientist. Probably because of the Professor on Gilligan’s Island. In any case, this microscope had a “reflection mirror” that was made of authentic plastic coated with something somewhat shiny and slightly metallic. It illuminated nothing even in the strongest sunlight. There was also one of those night-light bulb attachments you could use to provide weak, artificial light. I plugged it in and tried to see something enlarged (I don’t recall what). All you ever really saw through the eyepiece was your own eyelashes backlit by a yellowish circle of night light. I went to unplug the bulb but accidentally grabbed the metal prongs. I felt my body jerking and couldn’t control my hand to let go. It probably lasted only a second, but felt like eternity, before I forced my fingers open and pulled away. I don’t recall ever telling my mom about it, but I probably did.
That moment, one of the many scary parts of my childhood, comes back to me now and again. It was a potentially fatal situation, which is pretty heady for a seven- or eight-year-old. I knew that even as it was happening. What stands out to me about it was that I was all alone when it occurred. The childhood lesson I learned, to which I’d had introduced many times before, is that life is scary. I came a long way in the next half-century to overcoming my fears. But they still lurk. And I realize that I have quite a bit in common with horror writers who’ve been better able to make use of their childhood fears. It’s worth thinking about.
