Ghost story teaches lesson

As an aunt, I’m a proponent of “creative freedom” at the cabin.
My husband, on the other hand, pushes for “responsible” supervision (although he’s definitely loosening up).
This past weekend, he surprised me during a visit with two of our nephews and their friends.
The weekend started when I supported the kids in their adventure to stab and roast rusty crayfish over open flames. 
My husband wondered about the value of such a pursuit. “It’s likely not an activity suggested in any parenting magazine,” he muttered.
The crayfish were devoured, however, and apparently taste “just like lobster”–a lesson, I argue, about self-reliance.
The activity also is good for the imagination since thumb-sized scraps of charcoal don’t really look or taste like lobster, and chefs don’t wave pointed sticks like gladiators.
Then my fellow adventurers accompanied me on a late-night hike through the forest–a mystical place where bears and cougars appear, especially in the shadows of flashlights.
The creatures of the forest are “spooky,” which perfectly smoothed the way into ghost story-telling hour, yet another perfectly suitable late-night activity for children.
“Don’t children have bedtimes?” asked my husband.
Not when they’re with their aunt. No, instead it’s important that the kids hear about the late great-uncle who owned our cabin property, and how his spirit lives on.
It’s a fascinating story, plus it most logically explains a sighting from a previous summer: a pair of eyes as bright as moons gliding across the cabin front lawn.
But the biggest surprise was yet to transpire.
There we were with nothing but an open window dividing us from the blackness of night. We looked the perfect target; innocent victims really.
So when that creaturely beam of light crashed and roared upon us through that open window, my story—right at the dramatic crescendo–exploded from my throat with a scream.
Or several screams, as we all feared for our lives.
But the real surprise appeared behind the hand-held spotlight. There stood my husband—elated like a getaway crook–having the time of his life.

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