Laura's Tenth Birthday: Satan, Ghosts, and Mass Hysteria

I was really into ghost stories as a child. Really into them.

Laura in third grade, probably thinking about ghost stories

Laura in fourth grade, sporting unfortunate bangs

As luck would have it, a dilapidated old house sat in the woods behind my family's home. My brother and I loved to play there, and one day we found a letter addressed to a James Erbank.

That was all it took: within minutes I had concocted a story about a fire that had destroyed James Erbank's house, killing him and his family. And the agonized ghost of James Erbank had followed us home to live in our attic. Obviously.

Anyways, for my tenth birthday I asked to throw a sleepover. My mom set one ground rule: my friends and I had to stay out of my parents' bedroom.

Mom and me when I was nine

In the days leading up to the sleepover, I plotted an elaborate prank: I would take my friends on a tour of the woods, showing them the dilapidated house. I would then lead them back home and tell the ghost story of James Erbank.

A few years back, my dad had rigged our living room lamps with timers. I asked my dad to set the timers to midnight. I planned to tell the ghost story at 11:30 and end with, "the ghost gets angry when we throw parties. He appears at midnight and turns off the lights."

The day of the party, I quizzed my dad one more time about the lamps. Dad reassured me that the lamps were set for "around midnight."

Young Laura with her James and the Giant Peach diorama: clearly a brilliant child

My friends arrived, and as planned, I showed them the house and dramatically regaled them with the ghost story. Midnight came and passed. The lamps remained lit.

Feeling disappointed, I continued telling stories about James Erbank, assuring my friends he would show up at any moment.

Because seriously. This was me as a kid.

I was an imaginative kid, and I had a bad habit of revving myself up to a completely terrorized state of mind. And so I did that night.

Never mind that I had made up the story entirely. Never mind that I was in my own house, with my big brother in the next room and my parents upstairs. I was so scared I couldn't move. I was so scared I couldn't breathe.

My friends and I grew more and more panicked, waiting for the imaginary ghost that I invented to show up. We packed close together, terrified.

I grew so frightened that I led my friends into the computer room where my brother was trying to ignore the presence of six little girls. 

"We're scared," I hissed.

We settled on the couch and turned on the TV. We promptly gasped: a man in a Satan costume was on TV.

Laura: "SATAN IS HERE. WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE."

I lost my head entirely. I looked deep into the eyes of Lucifer in a car commercial and saw true evil. There was only one solution.

Laura: "I'M GOING TO MOM AND DAD'S ROOM."

I thundered up the stairs to my parent's room, with a stampede of little girls following me, terrified of being left alone with Satan and my brother.

I ripped their bedroom door open and hurled myself into their bed. One or two others hurled themselves with me. The others collected at the doorway, peering into the room.

My mom was... not amused. I mean, you give your daughter one rule, and in a moment of ghost story hysteria, she breaks it. 

My mom, realizing I was mildly insane with fear, gathered us up and herded us downstairs. My dad stayed in bed, probably wondering what the hell was wrong with his kid.

My mom guided us to our sleeping bags and gently tucked us in for the night. She soothed and calmed us. We breathed a collective sigh of relief. My mom turned to head back upstairs, the crisis resolved.

And then it happened. The timer kicked in, one hour late. All the lamps turned off. We were plunged into darkness.

You could hear the screams for miles. 

There is a high-pitched scream that little girls can produce, in perfect unison, that breaks the sound barrier. We screamed together, high, loud, and strong. 

We were a symphony of cracked-out dolphins. We made Mariah Carey sound like Barry White, if his voice was a little deeper. The fat lady singing had been reduced to half a dozen fourth graders.

That was my last big sleepover. 

Eight Random Facts about the Winiferd Woman

Today I bought my own domain for the blog. We have reached a whole new level of classy here at Winiferd in the Burbs. The new domain is http://www.winiferdintheburbs.com/.

To celebrate, I crafted a list of eight fascinating facts about me and my life. I figure this is appropriate, since writing an entire blog about yourself is a tremendous exercise in narcissism, anyways.

1. I'm still sorta shocked that I'm married. When I was younger, I assumed I would grow into an old, cranky spinster maid. With no cats, of course, since I'm allergic to them.

2. The above is why I got a hypoallergenic dog. My boyfriend at the time had dumped me several months prior, and I prepared for my perpetually single existence by renting a small apartment and adopting a tiny dog.

The dog was to be my one true companion during my bitter, lonely, elderly existence... I was twenty-five years old.

3. I began dating Ian two months after adopting Winnie.

4. I experience wildly ridiculous delusions of grandeur whenever someone upsets me: "Oh yeah?! Well just wait until I'm famous."

I have no real dreams of fame. This phenomenon only occurs when I'm pissed off. And then suddenly I'm a very pissed off, very famous person.

You know.

In my head.

5. Ian is two years older than me. Ergo, he believes he is a generation older than me.

When he talks about our generational differences, I point out that one generation equals at least eighteen years. And that a twenty-six year old and a twenty-eight year old are, indeed, from the same generation.

He continues to comment on our generational gap.

Wow! Two generations in one photo! It's historic!

6. When I was single and living in the city, I went bar-hopping with friends one night.

This was during the Great Bedbug Scare of 2010, and I'd been reading way too many news articles about bedbugs.

As we left a bar, a homeless woman appeared, sobbing for money. I handed her a five-dollar bill and she immediately yanked me into a hug. Visions of bedbugs danced in my head.

I raced home, ripped off my clothes, and stuffed them into a plastic sack. I then showered and crawled into bed, where I pulled out my laptop to read more articles about bedbugs.

I never got bedbugs.

7. For a while, I enjoyed handing Winnie to Ian and commanding, "Hold her." Then I would step back and wait to see how long he'd hold the dog.

It would usually take a few minutes for him to realize he was holding the dog for no particular reason, other than my own amusement. I did this several times before he caught on to me.

Here, Ian! Hold this!

Wait. What?

8. Now that Ian and I are married, "New Daddy" doesn't sound right. Ian loved being New Daddy. He never wanted to give up the name.

But I took matters into my own hands and began calling him "Forever Daddy." He's decided he likes his new name.

Please address all fan mail for Ian to his married name, Forever Daddy. His maiden name, New Daddy, is now obsolete.

I love you, Forever Daddy!

Where in the World is Polly Chickenheimer?

Ian and I keep running into interesting adventures with our newest flock of chickens. And when I say "adventures," I mean, "Dude, these things keep dying."

First, Jessup met his fate and went to that big chicken coop in sky. Then Maybelle did the same thing. Except we weren't fully responsible for Maybelle's demise. That honor goes to some crafty fox or raccoon.

We were two down from our original four. And then, on Thursday night, Polly went missing. Ian had let the chickens out of their cages to play in the yard while he used the weed-eater on the edge of the property.

He never saw a single dog, cat, hawk, or other predator descend upon our chickens. The chickens played merrily, running in circles and squawking.

When Ian finished weed-eating, he discovered Polly was missing. Ian and I searched and searched for Polly. Late afternoon turned into evening, and we had to break out flashlights.

Polly is our fastest and most cunning chicken. She likes to play games of hide and seek, roosting in tree branches and hiding in dark places. She's our friendliest chicken by far.

Also, Polly is bald on top. Either Jessup or Maybelle pecked her poor little head bare.

Being the sort who enjoys formal names on animals, I gave Polly the full name "Pauline" when I named her. Because Polly by itself is just too informal for a chicken, you know? Pauline gives her some dignity.

Polly's full name is Pauline Baldy Chickenheimer.

Ian and I enjoyed singing Polly Wolly Doodle to her. I delighted in calling her "Polly Wobbles" and "Polly Pockets." Polly Wobbles was feisty. We had grown attached to her, bald spot and all.

So when Polly went missing, Ian and I felt distraught.

Laura: "Polly's idol was Amelia Earhart. I bet Polly was building a secret plane. And she finished it this afternoon and flew off. I bet she wanted to be the first chicken to fly across the Atlantic. You know, in a plane."

Ian: "Aww. That makes me sad. I'll miss singing Polly Wolly Doodle to her." 

Laura: "I'll tell my blog readers she's flying around the world, so they won't feel sad. I can make a special column."

Ian: "It'll be like Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? Except with Polly Chickenheimer."

Laura: "We can Photoshop her into exotic locations."

Ian and I went to bed that night still feeling upset about Polly's disappearance.

The next morning, we awoke to Polly back home in her cage.

Ian: "Ms. Chickenheimer is back in her cage this morning. It's an X-File."

Polly is remaining mum on her whereabouts.

Perhaps she flew to the Hair Club for Men headquarters to try to fix that bald patch. Or perhaps she flew to Buckingham Palace to take tea with the Queen.

I'll let you know when she gives us the scoop.

Here are Ian and me serenading Polly with Polly Wolly Doodle. Ian plays banjo, I provide vocals, and Polly makes a special appearance. 

We had a bit of camera trouble so it sounds like it's playing through the old phonograph.

Watch closely. 

As soon as I finish singing of a chicken, "who sneezed so hard with the whooping cough; he sneezed his head and tail right off," Polly sneezes violently, spraying me with bits of corn and sludgy brown goo. 

Well played, Ms. Chickenheimer. Well played.

When John Became Jane

The chicks have grown into small chickens. And, well, what we thought were newly-developing rooster noises were really just your average chicken noises.

And John Proctor's spur was actually his extra toe, Silkie Bantams having an extra toe and all. (Interesting side-note: Silkie Bantams have blue feet, bones, and skin. Ours has a delicate blue face and crazy blue feet).

And what we thought was growing into a giant rooster forehead was actually a giant Silkie Bantam Afro.  

And what we thought was John's protective rooster nature was actually a Silkie Bantam's inherently gentle and caring nature:

"Silkie Bantams are a fantastic breed for individuals who enjoy birds that are docile [and] good with children. They make excellent mothers."

Silkie Bantams, called "the lap cat of the chicken world," are darling creatures. And Ian and I had no idea what we were dealing with, so we stupidly called John a rooster.

Well, John's a girl. We now call her Janathan or Jane or Janie. Her full name is now Janathan Fuzzy Proctor. We have 100 percent girl chickens.

It's a huge relief because after dealing with Jessup Hush'up, we worried that Jane would grow into a crowing nightmare and we'd have to get rid of her. And neither of us wanted to get rid of her.

If it had come to that, we'd have given her to my parents who live deeper in the country and could get away with a crowing rooster.

Fortunately, our Janie is a girl. She's the smartest of the chickens by far.

Ian will pull off old tree bark and give the grubs to the chickens, who gobble grubs the way I gobble chocolate pie. Jane's the only one with the smarts to go to the bark itself and pull off the grubs directly.

She's also the only one who runs straight into the hen-house when a loud noise or movement spooks the chickens. She runs directly to safety, while the others run in ridiculous, flapping circles.

The Sad Finale of Maybelle 

Then there's Maybelle. Poor, poor Maybelle. Maybelle was one of the four chickens we acquired a couple of weeks ago.

One night last week, Ian slept fitfully.

He kept thinking he heard the distant sound of chicken screams but decided he was suffering from your average poultry-induced anxiety.

At the crack of dawn he headed outside and found that a fox or raccoon had pulled Maybelle from her cage.

Ian followed a trail of white feathers into the neighbor's yard where he spotted some of Maybelle.

The fox had scurried off with as much of Maybelle as he could carry, for Maybelle was a big, fat chicken.

Maybelle in happier times

Ian woke me up to tell me. As he recounted the story, we both giggled because we're horrible people

Laura: "Did you remove the piece of Maybelle from the neighbor's yard?"

Ian: "No, I left it there."

Laura and Ian: <Giggle manically>

Our original 5 babies are doing well. Janathan is the obvious favorite around here, but my second favorite is Marjorine:

Ian's second favorite chicken varies between Sal and Bernadette:

Sal

Bernadette 

Ian has nicknamed Bernadette "Goldie," while I've been trying to enforce the nickname "Birdie."

Hester Prynne is our quietest chicken. She hangs back during playtime in the yard. She sits quietly and watches the others run in circles and flap their wings:

A reflective Hester 

Spottswood plans to knit Hester a sweater with a scarlet letter "A" embroidered on it. 

Neither Ian nor I attempt to hide our favoritism towards Jane. I coo, "I love you, Janathan!" every time I pass the hen-house. 

The blatant favoritism has probably traumatized the others so we're arranging intensive therapy for Sal, Bernadette, Marjorine, and Hester.

And we're arranging some modeling gigs for this sexy thing: