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A few days ago, Editor Mike Lello relayed a sign he saw posted in his apartment complex’s common area. While he couldn't’t remember the text of the sign verbatim, we do know that it was an announcement indicating that the space was reserved for a meeting of the imaginary friends club.

Chew on that for a minute, and then I’ll continue.

It got me to thinking about my childhood imaginary friend. The spelling of her name remains a mystery to my family and I, but after a lengthy discussion, my mom and I decided that it is ChiliReda. No one seems to remember her arrival when I was three, but she soon became a permanent fixture around the house.

My mother, the saint that she is, immediately began tending to ChiliReda without batting an eye. She always asked if it was safe to close doors and always had a place setting for my little friend at dinner, which I know ChiliReda appreciated immensely. She also was very appreciative of my beloved Pop-Pop, who thought it was cute and allowed our friendship to flourish.

(My brother informed me that everyone made fun of me behind my back, but I told him that our family surely must have been thankful for such an awesome, creative child who could amuse herself, even if she was really just talking to herself. Last night, Mom confirmed that very thought, and told me she was so proud to have such an ingenious daughter. She also said that she made sure no one did, in fact, make fun of me. My brother also claimed to have beaten ChiliReda up on several occasions, but I refuse to dignify that with a remark.)

ChiliReda had a brother, Jiminy (I had a fascination at the time with Jiminy Cricket, hence the name), and a boyfriend named Dirt. I don’t know quite where his name from though. From me being such a tomboy as a wee lass, maybe? We’ll never know for sure.  

While we also may never know where ChiliReda originated from, we do know that she was around for about two years and how she ceased to be.

“Well, she’s gone,” Pop-Pop told my mom as he dropped my brother and I off after a weekend with him and my grandmother.

“Who’s gone?” Mom asked worriedly.

“ChiliReda,” he said.

Just as she was about to light into her father about his possible stifling my creativity, he put up his hand and filled her in.

Apparently, I had bounded into the house and declared that ChiliReda was gone.

“Well, where did she go?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “She was hit by a train,” I said flippantly before running back outside.

And that was the end of that.

About the Author

Nikki M. Mascali began her career at the Weekender as an intern in 2005 - and holds the honor of being the oldest intern the paper ever had. She received her degree in journalism from Luzerne County Community College in 2007 and joined the Weekender staff full-time in 2006 as staff writer/designer before becoming associate editor in 2010. In March 2011, she was named editor.

Nikki has interviewed everyone from Gene Simmons to Richard Simmons, and her articles have run the gamut from local and national theater to music and in-depth reports on the radio industry and negativity in NEPA.

Nikki enjoys writing, quoting movies, traveling and being a diehard foodie - which is why she pens our weekly food and drink column, "Dish."

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