Flying Pigs? Why not??

Basements, especially unfinished, dank, poorly lit ones have a way of etching themselves, their mildew, their sepia, their very essence into our souls when we are children, never to be forgotten and only to be enhanced and magnified as we age.

They draw us into the unknown, the forbidden, the pith of what supports our lives above ground. They reveal Truth to us individually, completely. They become knowledge. 

They might be the place where adults disappear into, sometimes for long periods of time, sometimes to quickly emerge with firewood, folded clothes, or some object never before seen by young eyes. They might be a place where we are left alone to consider the ramifications of our actions. 

They might be the place where we first learn to balance on a bike, or where we first see a really ugly painting, or where we experience real fright for the very first time.

Then and now, they beckon and warn us like foghorns whisper to sailors in dense fog: Come closer; the shoal is near!