hydrophobia

Looming large among my many childhood fears was a terror of rabies. I think it was the utter finality of it. Once you got rabies, it was only a matter of time until it infected your central nervous system and you died a painful, horrible death, foaming at the mouth and unable to swallow.

I avoided squirrels, like, well, the plague, even though statistically, they're much less likely to be rabid than skunks, raccoons, or woodchucks (also known as groundhogs). I know that rabies is exceedingly rare in this country, and know too, that a series of vaccinations, if started soon enough, will prevent the disease from ever developing.

But none of this stopped me from screaming one morning, a few days ago, when I turned on the shower, stepped in and noticed a brown fuzzy blur, that, on closer inspection, turned out to be a bat curled up damply on the bathtub floor.

intuition

Trust your instincts, they say. The problem is that my instincts are almost always wrong. Note that I said "almost." If they were always wrong, I could work with that. It would be a simple matter of arranging to do not-X once my gut told me to do X. But it's never that easy.

My instincts tell me that I'm heading for another shattering disaster. My instincts tell me that it will all end in tears.

"Listen to your heart," says my mother. She doesn't realize that it's murmuring in a language that I can't possibly understand.

sleeping with the lights on

For a long time, I used to go to bed early -- and terrified. A fire safety brochure we'd been given in nursery school explained that one way you could figure out if there was a fire in the next room was to touch your doorknob. I jumped out of bed throughout the night -- wasn't it a little warm? did it feel hotter than the last time I'd touched it? How could I escape from my second-story bedroom? Was the tree close enough to reach and climb down? Would I kill myself if I jumped?

Conversely, I was also afraid of floods. Whenever it rained, I worried that it would never stop. We lived on a hill, but was it high enough to stay above the rising water? I convinced my brother to help me try to build a boat in the basement workshop, but we had a hard time lining up and hammering the nails.

I was afraid of drowning in the swimming pool, of the rats that might lurk in the little passage next to the garage, of getting lead poisoning from chewing on pencils (I knew the tips were made of graphite, but what if there were lead in the yellow paint on the sides?), of the boogeyman, of German shepherds, of jelly fish, and of Mr. Green, who lived next door.

I was also afraid of Robin Hood. I learned to read early, but, even though I could figure out the words, I didn't always understand the tone or context. In addition, the concept of a fictional character hadn't yet taken up residence in my consciousness. To me, Robin Hood and his merry men were a terrifying band of thieves who were always shooting arrows and, some day, might come to get me. I felt a little better when I read that Robin Hood and his men had taken a vow never to harm women or children. I was a child, so I was safe. Sigh of relief. But, then I thought, what about, what about, when I grew up? Then Robin Hood would be able to come after me. But, wait. Actually, no. Because, when I grew up, I would be -- I realized in a sudden burst of inspiration -- a woman. So, I would never have to worry about Robin Hood and I was free to read the rest of the green-covered book in peace.