My mother is not paranoid. She just thinks everyone is out to get her.
Like any immigrant who moves to a strange country, Mom was at first frightened of her new home. That's understandable.
But that was more than 40 years ago. And I could safely argue that she grew even more afraid over the years. Why, exactly, I can't say.
After all, we lived in Watertown, Mass., a Boston suburb known more for its two malls and large Armenian community than its penchant for raw violence.
Perhaps it was the time she saw two men standing in our back yard at night. Or maybe it was her tendency, despite my exhortations, to faithfully watch the six o'clock news every evening.
If it bleeds, it leads.
Whatever the cause, we all felt (or should I say suffered?) the effects. Windows were closed with the shades pulled down, even in the summer. Light, natural or electric, was strongly discouraged. Trick-or-treaters ventured to our doorstep at their own risk.
Our doors sported a hodgepodge of locks, bolts and chains that only a medieval warlord could love. Each time I made my mandatory annual visit, I seemed to discover a new lock. Each lock was like a tree ring. You could figure out the year just by glancing at the front door.
