October, late 1980s. My husband and son want to watch a “Friday the 13th” movie one Saturday afternoon. After they reassure me that the movie is indeed just a movie and doesn’t have a grain of truth in it, we settle down in the living room to watch.
Visualize the scene: son in a recliner with a bowl of popcorn on his lap, sleeping dog on the floor at his feet, husband comfortable in a swivel chair with legs stretched out in front of him. And me sitting in my winged-back chair, feet up on an ottoman, working on a crossword puzzle trying not to watch what was playing out in front of me.
Finally, the end of the seemingly never-ending movie is coming up. The lone survivor of the camp is in a rowboat out in the middle of the lake. Police cars are racing around the lake on the road alongside it. Sigh of relief from me, she’s safe, all is well after all.
Suddenly, out of the water jumps Jason, the killer of all her friends in camp! She screams, I scream and leap onto my husband’s lap, twirling him around in the swivel chair, his head buried in my bosom. He’s calling out “I can’t see! I can’t see!” Son in the recliner jumps, cussing up a storm, popcorn flying all over the living room. And the dog barking, ready to defend us all.
