It was late 2004.
In November, I’d given birth to my firstborn son. By December, it was often cold and snowy, Western New York being what it is, and we’d been cautioned to keep the baby indoors and away from people for his first few months. Worried first-time parents with an infant with a heart defect, we took this advice to heart.
My husband had his job. Me? I was off work for the first time in more than a decade. I had Jim to care for, of course, but he was a remarkably laid-back baby. I was used to noisy newsrooms, constant activity, people all around me.
I was bored out of my mind.
I read everything I could get my hands on. I picked up a scrapbooking habit. I even started watching more TV than usual and I am not a TV person. I devoured odd stuff: cartoons, documentaries, cooking shows. (My love for Good Eats also dates from this time.)
Then, aimlessly channel-surfing while my son slept in my arms, I came across a show on the Discovery Channel.
“Huh,” I thought. (I actually remember thinking this.) “I like urban legends. Could be interesting.
“What are they doing to that elevator?”
Years later, that baby is about to turn 11 years old. And that TV show is ending.