Beware The Basement

       Linda used to lure me down into the basement.  I must have been three or four years old.  Maybe she had a special surprise for me down there, I thought.  Maybe she said she would let me play with her pet gerbils.  Whatever it was, her sweet and caring voice enticed me every time.  My big sister beckoned for me, and I gladly came running.  It turned out it was a surprise, a surprise she gave to me and me alone. Time after time.  She'd hold me still, arms length away, and here it was...Whack!  It was a slap right across the face.  I'd look at her bewildered, and my lips would start to quiver.  Then I'd cry.  Next she'd immediately wrap me up in her arms and give me a big hug.  I think she laughed each time.  Actually I know she did.  Every so often now, she'll ask if I remember the self-amusing ritual she had at the expense of her baby brother.  I'm not sure.  But over the years I've yelled in ire at a ballplayer of mine during practice for no justifiable reason, only later to give him a proverbial hug or pat on the back.  So yeh, I think I do remember.  And I've passed that experience on along the way.