Housewarming
Brought to you by: Twain Tonic™ — guaranteed to lighten the mood and get us back to prose.
Yesterday we went to warm my sister-in-law’s new house. Funny expression, that. “Housewarming”. Once upon a time, guests actually brought firewood to kindle a blaze — not just to keep the new place toasty, but to chase away any evil spirits hanging around the rafters of the recently vacant home.
Is that what palo santo is supposed to be for? If memory serves, it’s a sort of designer incense stick meant to ward off negative energy. Maybe I ought to set my leftover stocking stuffers alight and see if it works.
When I was young, my dad read us folk tales before bed — the Grimms, Aesop, and a few odd collections of his own finding: trickster tales of Anansi from West Africa, selkies and druids from the Scottish Highlands, that sort of thing. The man was an equal-opportunity nightmare supplier.
One night I invited a friend for a sleepover — big event. I was maybe in fourth grade. It was her first sleepover, and she was thrilled. We did all the classic nine-year-old girl things: played Jedi v. Sith in the treehouse, threw firecrackers on the asphalt down the street, and caught salamanders in “the Hole.” (Every neighborhood has a place called “the Hole”. It’s practically in the bylaws of childhood.)
Come bedtime, we washed up and shuffled into my brothers’ room for the nightly story. Dad had been working through a volume of Japanese folktales — inspired, no doubt, by his recent business trip to Tokyo and maybe a touch of jet lag.
Now, Dad didn’t just read stories. He performed them — voices, gestures, dramatic pauses long enough to make you check your pulse. That night he chose “The Boy Who Drew Cats.” A fine little tale — if you enjoy mild trauma before lights-out.
Halfway through, my poor friend’s courage gave way. The lighting, the suspense, the liberties of Dad’s sound effects, the sudden “AND THE GOBLIN SHRIEKED!” — it was too much. She lost her composure. And, well… also her bladder.
By the time the lights came back on, she was bawling, demanding a phone, and booking passage home on the next mini van. We never had another sleepover. Frankly, I don’t think we ever had another playdate either.
Now, what point was I trying to make?
Ah yes — evil spirits. See, I don’t much believe in palo santo, but to this day, whenever I’m sleeping somewhere too big or too empty, I’ll find a snug little corner and, just to be safe, draw a tiny cat in the air with my finger.
Old habits die hard. My siblings still do it in their minds, though they would never admit it.
You never know when a good cat might come in handy. Luckily, I don’t get out much anymore.