A Childhood of Terror

It has been almost a month since my last update, and for that I do apologize. There has been a lot going on, and when I finally wanted to update this blog, my computer decided that it was going to be a filthy strumpet and get all sorts of viruses that destroyed everything. It is currently out being fixed, and I should get it back in a few weeks, though maybe not up and in proper working order for another week after that. So, there it is. It's computer labs and the generosity of my fellow people for me.

I'm currently in the Music Resource Center after my first day of fall classes, having just rerouted the delivery of my new phone to the UPS delivery place tomorrow. Yes, new phone from the insurance company, because my screen has a crack in it. All of my technology seems to just detest me lately.

But that is not what I am here to tell you. I am here to tell you about the wonderful relationship I have with my dear older sister, Linden Lea. Linden has always been a wonderful older sister, setting a wonderful example of how to do well in school, do well in music, interact with friends, and of course interact with our parents (the last of which I of course entirely ignored, to my parents' chagrin). Wonderful.

Most of my friends know that she and I have a relationship that is at once loving, understanding, and riddled with silly inside jokes that only we understand. What most of them don't realize is that she was also a very typical older sister, who enjoyed terrorizing her young, naive wittle sister Kiki.

My first real memory of Din taking delight in scaring me was playing cards. This is the first instance because it is also the silliest. We would play Crazy 8's quite a bit when I was little, as it was a simple, Uno-like game I understood easily, without too many rules. I have a very distinct memory of Linden and myself sitting at the red card table in our basement, playing Crazy 8's, and Linden all of a sudden holding her cards up to her face so that I could only see her eyes, which were narrowed to evil slits. For some reason this scared the ever living crap out of me, and I believe I first started whining, then probably bawling because I thought for some reason that something terrible would happen.
This happened every time we played cards for probably a year. Honestly it's probably one of those things where she was like "Hey, look at this, isn't it weird that she's scared of this? I know right?" And it was just kind of funny. I mean it's not something I'm still scared of to this day, and it's actually pretty funny and cute looking back. I mean, I was probably 5 or 6 at the time.

Some years later, when I was probably 10 or so, we were moving around some of my parents' posters from Royal Shakespeare Company plays they'd been to in the '70s and '80s. There were some Much Ado About Nothing posters, which consisted of a poster for the show, and two black & white prints of Beatrice and Benedick in scenes. I think Derek Jacobi was in that show, was the big deal. They also have a framed picture from that show in our basement. It used to sit by our television, if anyone can specifically remember that.

Well, there was also a poster from the RSC's production of a certain play connected with Scotland with a character named Macbeth. This poster was illustrated by Ralph Steadman. Go on, google him. I'll wait.

Ready? Okay. Linden told me to come over to the shelving in the basement, where the posters were being kept. "Kirsten!" She called, "Come look!" At which point she flipped forward the Much Ado poster to reveal this monstrosity:

This is much more terrifying when 2'x3' and in higher definition.

I dimly recall shrieking and then, in a shocking turn of events, crying. This time, Linden was taken aback and apologized for scaring me, and we talked about how stupid that poster is, because it's not even of a character in the play, I mean really.

End result? Kind of a funny story, but I'm still uneasy around that poster.


This last one is not really Linden's fault, but more the fault of my overactive imagination and clearly overactive sense of worry. Right.

All of our Christmas supplies and decorations are kept in this closet under the basement stairs, in the laundry room. Every year we open it and every year it looks smaller and smaller. There is a bare light bulb that you turn on by pulling a taut string after you open the door, and the words MRS. DYL are illuminated in dripping white paint on the board right in front of your face. It's really kind of creepy.

One year I finally asked Linden who this MRS. DYL person was. Her reply began innocently enough: "She's the first lady who lived in this house."
"Really?"
"Yeah." Short pause. "This is the room she was murdered in."

At this point I believe I made a face similar to D: or maybe O.O and proceeded to wonder about how she could have been murdered, who could have painted her name in the closet, why they did so, if she was buried under the house, if she would haunt my dreams or maybe just every Christmas from this point onward...you know, the usual things a worrywart worries about.

I never asked Linden about it until several years later, when I reminded her that she said that and she said she was kidding, and she didn't think I'd taken it seriously. Even though I'd stopped really believing it was the case, it has always made me wary of opening that closet door after a year has gone by.

I think the scary stories and attempts to give me jolts were either conscious or unconscious acts of revenge for all the times my clumsy self accidentally hurt her: I slammed a car door on her hand, I dropped a bowling ball on her toe, and I accidentally wounded my sister countless times by doing stupid things. I love my sister though, and I love that we have these stories to share.