Finder Of Lost Things

 

Irrational fears come in all flavors – beards, butterflies, spiders, clowns, rollercoasters,  darkness, snakes, mice, ghosts, death, blood, needles, dogs, public speaking, the color yellow, heights, and bathing – for instance. If a long Latin name attaches itself to your favorite, you know it is someone else’s too, like some weird and wonderful ice-cream concoction. I’ve never found a name for mine (not sure if this makes me feel like a special snowflake or freak), but I do know its point of origin.

During spring vacation just after I turned nine (munching on a cookie), my purple sneakers and I felt the need to investigate an ominous din emanating from within our garden shed. Using all the skills I’d gleaned from Cherry Ames, Nancy Drew and Scooby Doo – I crept, quiet as cat’s paws, towards the side window. Easing my way between the bushes and the wall I peered over the windowsill. Old and dusty spider webs shrouded the source of the scrapes, bumps, and groans from my eyes while keeping most of the sun out. 

I almost lost my nerve when I wondered what exactly skittered around in the corners of the shed where the light didn’t reach. 

Not wanting to chicken out (Cherry and Nancy never did), I tip-toed slowly around the corner of the shed and peaked thru the door. The semi-darkness of the interior imbued the sheers, saws, and shovels with all kinds of sinister intent. When a fresh round of scraping started my eyes flew to the epicenter of the sound, the shadows cast such an aura of menace I failed to recognize my Uncle wrestling the mower off the wall. I yipped. He turned. I beaned him with my cookie. Then channeling my inner Shaggy & Scooby, I ran pell-mell back to the house and tried to explain to my Aunt about the dangerous criminal I’d seen in the shed. 

Might not sound like much, but my nine-year-old self etched the episode in technicolor splendor in my memory (My Uncle laughed after he wiped the crumbs off his face. I never set foot in the shed again – we had seriously shaggy lawn the summer he tried to get me over my fear – but that’s another story).

So when I figured out where Beatrice was leading me at six am the next morning – in the dark – I felt trepidatious (a beautifully long word which sounds way better than ‘fraidy-cat). Little gremlins started tap dancing their way up and down my spine reminding me of that inauspicious day – which of course did nothing to curb my fears. But in fairness that’s not their job.

While I psyched myself out, Beatrice lead me unerringly down the garden path (apparently she ate a ton of carrots as a kid and now reaps the benefits of excellent night vision) towards the shed I’d found in my previous foray. On the upside, I’d fortified myself with a fantastic cup of coffee which helped dispel the chill in the air (and my heart).

Just about the time I figured I could live with Laundry Island (what I’d taken to calling my surplus possessions) and seriously debating whether I really needed the extra space in my room and unbruised shins – we arrived. 

The orange glow from the sodium streetlamp on the adjoining road lit up the front of the shed nicely – didn’t make me feel like we were stuck in a jack-o-lantern at all. In the morning quiet I could hear Beatrice’s boots scrape over the wooden steps and snick of two locks disengaging – smiling at me over her shoulder she opened the door and walked into the darkness. 

WWNDD – What Would Nancy Drew Do?