Afraid of the Wolf Man

When I was six years old, my dad let me stay up late with the rest of the family and watch the movie The Wolf Man. Boy, did he regret that decision. The film left me convinced that the wolf man spent each night prowling our den, awaiting his preferred meal of first-grade, redheaded, freckle-salted boy. My fear proved problematic. To reach the kitchen from my bedroom, I had to pass perilously close to his claws and fangs, something I was loath to do.

More than once I retreated to my father’s bedroom and awoke him. Like Jesus in the boat, Dad was sound asleep in the storm. How can a person sleep at a time like this? Opening a sleepy eye, he would ask, “Now, why are you afraid?” And I would remind him of the monster. “Oh yes, the Wolf Man,” he’d grumble. He would then climb out of bed, arm himself with superhuman courage, escort me through the valley of the shadow of death, and pour me a glass of milk. I would look at him with awe and wonder, What kind of man is this?