Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Hawkes for the Holidays

So, tonight I went to a play called Holmes for the Holidays. In short, our group of friends is looking for more activities on weeknights and somehow ended up at the equivalent of teen night for young adults at the theater. It was a story about the actor that played Sherlock Holmes and a murder mystery that took place at his home over the Christmas holiday. Unfortunately it wasn't interactive and none of us ended up being the murderer or murderee in the show.

That's really neither here nor there, because after seeing them wipe the "blood" off of the murder weapon, I had a flashback.

When we were kids, my sister, brother and I used to set up little murder scenes in the kitchen, living room, etc. in anticipation of when my mom would get home from a walk. We'd put ketchup on a knife and my brother's shirt, have him lay down on the floor in the family room (in clear view from the door) and I'd act like I was crying over him. 

Convincing, right?

Well, at intermission I excitedly brought up this memory to my sister to reminisce about how crazy we were. 

She didn't remember.

So I texted my brother: "Remember when we used to set up murder scenes in the house for when Mom got home? Like we'd cover knives with ketchup and be laying on the floor?"

His response: "WHAT???"

He didn't remember either.

I assumed my oldest sister wouldn't remember, since she was already dating boys* at the time and likely wouldn't have gotten on board with trying to convince my mom that her kids were dead.

*Note: I know this because I remember we pulled the murder setup once after a particular visit from the police at our house. We had gotten home one night to an open door and the TV on - nobody home. So, naturally, we called the po-po. When they arrived, they determined that the house had been broken into and that the only room that was ransacked was hers. The truth? She was hurriedly getting ready for a date, trying on clothes and throwing them around her room and then ran out the door, leaving the house in such a state of disarray. 

Back to the point. 

So I called my mom. She laughed and said she "vaguely" remembered it. I'm glad to see that the traumatization hasn't been burned in her mind forever.

But still, in hindsight... what were we thinking? Sorry Mom.