In the corner of our dining area is a door with a broken lock. I’ve stuck a red plastic bag inside the hole where the lock used to be, and put a couple of plastic stools in front to casually suggest it’s a no-go-zone.
The space behind the door belongs to our landlord who uses it for storage. I’ve never been inside, looked inside, or had any desire to check out someone else’s junk — but then again I’m not a 10 year boy.
When the landlord told me (after losing his key to the room and breaking the lock) that he would no longer be locking it — I did mention that I couldn’t guarantee Jerry wouldn’t try to get in. After all telling 10 year-olds not to go in rooms is akin to lighting them up like an airport runway and then guiding in the plane.
So I did laugh — after our landlord’s most recent visit — when Jerry told me told me very earnestly that he wasn’t to go into that room Tita Mel.
“There is a snake in that room Tita Mel and if I go in there, the snake will bite me.”
Jerry is still at that delightful age where he believes all things adults tell him and still capable of being hoodwinked by a snake yarn.
I do love the way the snake story transcends ages and cultures, and am certain parents have been telling children all over the world for thousands and thousands of years: stay away from my stuff — there’s a snake.