In his first inaugural address, President Franklin D. Roosevelt once said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” I totally agree with that statement right at this very moment. Easy for me to say while I’m sitting at my computer in the quiet comfort of my home. My kids are currently at school, my husband is at work, and the laundry is pleasantly spinning away in the washing machine. In other words, there is currently nothing major for me to fear, at least in the short term (except for maybe a little writer’s block; but hopefully reliving this blog will spur my creative juices).
That wasn’t the case one night about forty years ago. I was around twelve years old, and my sister was fifteen. Our parents had gone out for the evening, leaving us home alone. It had been a warm night. I’d been wearing a T-shirt and shorts, with my 1980s tube socks pulled high when I’d come inside from practicing soccer by myself in the backyard. As was our protocol, the doors were all locked. I decided to go upstairs and take a quick shower before dinner. About half an hour later, while we were eating, my sister and I heard a high-pitched chirping coming from somewhere upstairs. What was causing this sound? Did these strange noises warrant calling our parents to have them come home early? Recall, this was a time before cell phones, texting, and FaceTime. If we called our parents when they were out, that meant something was really wrong.
After a brief debate, my sister and I chose to tackle the detective work ourselves. We were scared out of our minds, but we did it anyway. Which brings me to the life lesson I learned that night: when fear comes from uncertainty, release yourself from worrying about the “worst-case scenarios,” and instead, focus on what immediate next steps you can take. Incremental movement is typically a better way to solve problems instead of waiting until all the conditions are perfect for action. Sometimes, you just have to take the leap.
Here’s my story…
Not safe and sound
Let me start by saying that hearing strange sounds in your home is not something you should quickly dismiss. In my sister’s and my case, despite being petrified, we immediately deduced that our lives weren’t in danger. First, we ruled out the smoke detector. We were well-versed in the annoying beep of the “it’s time to replace the battery” as well as the full-on “jeez, you really burnt the toast” alarm sounds. This cheeping sound was faint. It didn’t seem like something electronic, like a toy or a clock. It also didn’t sound like anything human, ruling out burglars.
“What do you think it is?” I asked. My sister shrugged her shoulders. “If it’s not something battery-operated or a person, what if the sound is coming from an animal? Like a bat or a raccoon? What if it’s in the attic? Or worse, what if it’s running around the house?” My sister, bless her, was somehow the voice of reason.
“An animal won’t be able to pull open the attic door. And all of our windows have screens—which big animals can’t get through. If there was something behind the walls, we probably would just hear the scratching.” My sister shuddered at the thought. I, in turn, felt nauseous.
As a typical little sister, I deferred to my older sister on all major decisions. “So, what do you think we should do?” My sister thought for a moment.
“We could call our neighbors and ask if they’d come and help.” I went to the window and looked over at our closet neighbor’s house. Every house around ours looked dark.
I shook my head “no.” We’d need to take the leap and figure out what the chirping was on our own.
Going to bat
“Where do you think the sound is coming from?” My sister cocked her head, trying to ascertain the sound’s origins. “Maybe from an upstairs closet?” Instantly, I thought about Esmerelda, a creepy, handmade straw doll that I had stuffed in the back of my closet. The doll had been a gift from my now-deceased grandmother, and I didn’t have the heart to throw it away. Did Esmerelda somehow come to life? And speak by chirping?
No, I thought to myself. That doll would have a scary cackle if anything.
“How would we hear that quiet sound if it was in a closet? Maybe it’s coming from outside? Like maybe from an open window?” I suggested. I was grasping at straws—like Esmerelda’s stuffing—at this point. Suddenly, I was seized by unfounded courage; I said, “I’ll get my baseball bat, and we’ll go upstairs to see for ourselves.”
Admittedly, I was naïve in a nothing-could-really-be-wrong way that children often are. My sister shrugged, which I took as a cue for “yes.” So, I went to the garage for my bat.
“Now what?” I asked, armed with my Louisville Slugger.
With a deep breath, my sister grabbed my arm and said in a shaky voice, “Now, we go upstairs.” It was time to take the leap.
Jiminy crickets!
Clutching my baseball bat, ready to swing, my sister and I inched up the steps. About halfway along the stairs, we heard the cheeping sound. It was close by. I whirled around, almost falling down the steps and nearly taking my sister with me.
“Look!” my sister shrieked, gesticulating wildly at a step near the top.
“What? What is it?” I aimed my bat, ready to swing, as I strained to see what she was pointing at.
The chirping resumed. As my eyes focused on a tiny blob along the top step, I’d realized what the sound was: a small grasshopper. It must’ve been caught on one of my socks, which I remembered taking off as I went upstairs to the shower.
“What should we do?” I felt my legs trembling. Based on the rules of valor, I should’ve taken the leap and been the one to volunteer and remove the grasshopper. But I didn’t want to go near the grasshopper, let alone touch it. I would’ve slid downstairs down the bannister to make a quicker exit if our mother hadn’t forbidden us from doing so.
Up for grabs
My sister and I were plenty comfortable outdoors, but no one liked bugs inside the house. And a grasshopper certainly didn’t belong in our sparkly clean home.
“We could kill it,” my sister suggested. “But I don’t want to do that,” she quickly added.
“What if we sucked it up in the vacuum?” That seemed like a humane way to dispose of the grasshopper. That way, neither of us had to touch it.
“It’ll probably jump away by the time we drag Mom’s vacuum up the stairs.” My sister had a good point. My mother’s clunky, old Electrolux canister vacuum weighed a ton. Then I had a brilliant idea, particularly for a twelve-year-old.
“How about we just put a cup over the grasshopper and wait until Mom and Dad come home?” My sister eagerly nodded in approval. While neither of us had to touch the grasshopper, it would require fast hands to get the cup over the tiny creature. “I’m too afraid to do it. What if it jumps on me? Or bites me?” Unless my sister stepped up, we’d be stuck with a grasshopper on the loose.
Caught on the hop
After much hemming and hawing, my sister finally agreed to be the grasshopper captor. Perhaps it was because she loved science more than I did, but I was grateful she had taken the leap. I volunteered to get the cup while she stood watch, making sure the grasshopper didn’t hop away.
I quickly found a clear plastic cup so that both the cup and grasshopper could be disposed of in one fell swoop—by my parents, of course. Solemnly, I handed the cup to my sister as if we were in an operating theater. I then quietly backed down several steps.
My sister took a deep breath. Had we been of the religious sort, this would’ve been the point where we’d cross ourselves. With a swiftness I’d never seen, my sister plunged the cup on top of the grasshopper, creating a tiny makeshift cage. I breathed a sigh of relief and embraced my sister. She looked drained yet exhilarated from the experience.
“Should we poke holes in the cup so the grasshopper can breathe?” I asked. We decided that touching the cup any further would jeopardize our successful capture. Instead, we took turns holding vigil at the bottom of the steps, making sure the grasshopper didn’t somehow develop superhuman powers and escape. We counted the long minutes until our parents came home. Thankfully, they were not huge party animals.
Bugging out
As soon as our parents walked through the door, we immediately filled them in on all the grasshopper drama. For any animal rights activists reading this blog, my father—who was our family’s official bug bounty hunter—slid a piece of paper under the cup and humanely released the grasshopper back into the wild.
Although I can’t trace it back to this exact experience, my sister went on to become an eye doctor. Perhaps she was inspired by her ability to act decisively and touch yucky things. As for me, no, I did not become an entomologist. More likely an etymologist, since I love words way more than bugs.
In truth, this grasshopper incident taught me the importance of taking the leap towards action in the face of a scary situation. Worrying about the what-ifs wouldn’t have inspired us to trap the grasshopper under a cup. In fact, the “worry’s deceit” phenomenon—the belief that worrying about something will prevent that bad thing from taking place—rarely comes to pass. Researchers estimate that 85-90% of the time, the bad things we worry about never happen.
Fear is a natural response to the unknown; it’s what has kept us alive throughout the course of humankind. But facing your fears, while temporarily unpleasant, likely won’t lead to catastrophe. Instead, it might lead to courage. Thanks to that wayward grasshopper, I am now capable of dealing with virtually all things unpleasant. The grasshopper incident was great preparation for having children, and even better preparation for living in New York City, with its creatures big and small. Though I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a special shout-out to my Dust buster for its unwavering support over the years. Without it, dealing with creepy crawly things would really suck.
Do you recall any childhood memories that had a strong impact on you later in life? Please share your stories with me in the comments section.
