The Ketchikan mother and the scream
Kids sometimes scream. These blood-curdling yells occur mostly in the context of play; after all, most kids have lively imaginations. To other ears, though, these careless screams can suggest something is seriously amiss.
One summer at the lake, I witnessed a scene that stopped me from ever again emitting another careless scream. (At least, until I was 19, and foolishly agreed to go along with university friends and ride the historic wooden roller coaster at the PNE.)
My brother and I played with a kid whose name we did not know, because we hadn't bothered to introduce ourselves. We thought of him as Ketchikan, because he was from that town in Alaska.
Like many other summer tourists, Ketchikan and his mother had come down to Prince Rupert on the Alaska Ferry in a camper, and then driven down to Lakelse Lake, where we were also staying.
We were playing some boisterous game, and my brother was chasing Ketchikan, who let out a blood-curdling scream.
His mother erupted from the camper and we all three froze as she ran toward us, hair flying.
"What's the matter?" Her face was filled with a wild concern.
"Nothing," said Ketchikan, "we're just playing." Then he made the mistake of laughing.
I've never seen anyone's expression change so fast. In an instant, the pallor of terror was replaced by the wildness of rage.
"Listen to me, Kenny," she said, biting off each word. (It seemed Kenny was his real name.) "Screaming is not funny. When you scream, I come running. If you have no good reason to be screaming, I'll be glad to give you one." Then she looked at my brother and me coldly, turned, and stomped away.
That was when I realized the effect screaming had on others, parents especially. And except for that one time on the roller coaster--and I really couldn't stop myself then--I never screamed again.
One summer at the lake, I witnessed a scene that stopped me from ever again emitting another careless scream. (At least, until I was 19, and foolishly agreed to go along with university friends and ride the historic wooden roller coaster at the PNE.)
My brother and I played with a kid whose name we did not know, because we hadn't bothered to introduce ourselves. We thought of him as Ketchikan, because he was from that town in Alaska.
Like many other summer tourists, Ketchikan and his mother had come down to Prince Rupert on the Alaska Ferry in a camper, and then driven down to Lakelse Lake, where we were also staying.
We were playing some boisterous game, and my brother was chasing Ketchikan, who let out a blood-curdling scream.
His mother erupted from the camper and we all three froze as she ran toward us, hair flying.
"What's the matter?" Her face was filled with a wild concern.
"Nothing," said Ketchikan, "we're just playing." Then he made the mistake of laughing.
I've never seen anyone's expression change so fast. In an instant, the pallor of terror was replaced by the wildness of rage.
"Listen to me, Kenny," she said, biting off each word. (It seemed Kenny was his real name.) "Screaming is not funny. When you scream, I come running. If you have no good reason to be screaming, I'll be glad to give you one." Then she looked at my brother and me coldly, turned, and stomped away.
That was when I realized the effect screaming had on others, parents especially. And except for that one time on the roller coaster--and I really couldn't stop myself then--I never screamed again.