This chapter title, is, according to my baby book, one of the first complete sentences I uttered at 19 months of age. And I never got around to noticing that entry in my baby book until long after my parents were dead. So I'll probably never know why I was "scared to death", short of resorting to a Ouija Board.

I know that I have always been afraid of loud noises and can hardly bear to be in the same room with a balloon, so, presumably, one blew up in my face at a very tender age.

And I can remember when I was eight or nine that I used to be deliciously frightened by my brother Bill who would sneak up behind me wearing a jacket over his head and suddenly announce "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?...The Shadow Knows", followed by a cackling laugh as I ran screaming to Mom or Dad.

Scary movies made me shiver and squeal, and I would watch them through the slits between the fingers of my hands held over my face. A movie called "The Mummy" put me into a state of hysteria for hours! Recently I videotaped a couple of 1938 or 1939 movies that I remember being very frightened by as a child, both of them with Bob Hope and Paulette Goddard..."The Cat and the Canary" and "The Ghost Breakers". As I was watching them, I found myself laughing until the tears streamed down my face, remembering how terrified I had been the first time I saw them! Now they just seem quaint and very silly. Although there is that one scene with the zombie in "The Ghost Breakers"...

In an earlier chapter, I wrote about going to the Saturday afternoon matinee at the Plaza Theater with my big brother and his friend, Lee Floyd. From the perspective of the years since that day, I have found myself wondering why this memory stuck in my mind, aside from the physiological and psychological factors which affect our short- and long-term memories. I know that there were many Saturdays when I went to the afternoon matinee with my brother; why remember this one?

The clue came very suddenly - a piece of the memory puzzle that had been lost for a long time...that was the day that Bill's friend Lee chose to bring a pistol to the theater with him. He fired it while holding it against my brother's side. I was told at the time, and did not question it, that it was a cap pistol. But I realize now that it was probably a real gun, possibly a starter's pistol, loaded with a blank cartridge, because it made a loud enough noise that the film was stopped and the house lights turned on.

My brother's face was a funny shade of white, but he was not hurt, except for a small burn on his right side. And poor Lee was frantic. I think I remember being scared and feeling like it was somehow my fault because Mom had made Bill take me along, even though Bill keep saying "Don't worry, PeeWee, it's okay, don't worry".

While digging around in my subconscious for the reason behind that particular memory, another recollection came to mind of a very different kind of fear. One afternoon when we were all in the car on one of our Sunday drives, my brother and I, who were six years apart in age, were squabbling in the back seat, arguing and hitting at each other, as kids do. After repeated warnings from Dad, we were still at it, when suddenly the car stopped and Dad turned around and opened the back door on the curb side.

Bill and I looked at him, round eyed, as he ordered us out of the car, Mother's voice in the background saying "Now, Rich", ineffectually. We got out of the car slowly and sat on the curb watching it as it pulled away, turning onto the cross street at the corner. I remember being awfully scared, sobbing loudly at having been abandoned by our parents.

Mother said years later that after Daddy had driven around the block, they turned the last corner and approached us slowly to see Bill with his arm around my shoulder patting me and looking on the verge of tears himself, assuring me that he would take care of me. The rest of our Sunday drive was very peaceful, she said.