In the last column, I discussed my trip to a local hospital, during which I was tortured and robbed of sleep. All of this got me thinking about my sleep life and I have come to a very clear conclusion.

My ability to sleep has never been first-rate.

As a young child, I was a sleepwalker. This probably wouldn’t have been so bad if I had confined my nocturnal ramblings to the house. Unfortunately, I had a tendency to venture into the great outdoors. We lived in a new development on the outskirts of a small town on the southwest coast of Florida and a sleepwalking child could potentially meet with all kinds of hazards wandering around in the dark, not the least of which were alligators. I had a dog eaten by an alligator once, but that is another story.

On one occasion, my parents found me two blocks away, wandering down the street whistling the theme of the Andy Griffith Show. They woke me up, which I am told they were not supposed to do, and my Dad told me that until I stopped sleepwalking I couldn’t watch Andy, Barney, and Gomer anymore. Another time, my folks found me sitting in a bathtub full of water in the middle of the night, muttering something about Aunt Bea.

We lived near the water and often went out in our boat. My Dad threatened to tie an anchor around my foot when I went to bed, but he never followed through on his threat. I eventually outgrew the sleepwalking but never did establish a good pattern of slumber.

Another sleep-related memory is of a time when I was eight-years-old. The year was 1957 and I saw a commercial on television for a new movie, “The Blob,” starring a young Steve McQueen. My first mistake was hearing about the movie. My second mistake was going to see it.

In the movie, a sci-fi classic, a meteor crashes near a small town and a weird creature emerges. The Blob was like a big mass of black Jell-O and went on a rampage, absorbing animals, people and houses. The more it ate, the bigger the Blob became. In one scene, the Blob was slowly oozing under a door at a movie theatre. That image became cemented in my young, fragile mind.

For many nights after seeing the movie, I would keep my eyes riveted on the space between the bottom of the door to my room and the floor beneath it. I was convinced that at any moment, the Blob was going to come seeping into my room and, in ravenous fury, have me for a snack. Needless to say, sleep was out of the question. At least I didn’t have to worry about sleepwalking and having an anchor tied to my foot. No way was I going to sleep with an oozing mass of dark gelatin on the loose.

I eventually solved the problem by wedging a towel under the door. In my traumatized mind, I somehow figured the Blob couldn’t get through a towel.

Some experts claim that sleep problems are genetic in nature. There may be something to this. My maternal grandfather stands out in my mind as a man who had strange sleep habits.

Papa would usually go to bed at around 7:30 PM and arise around 3 AM.

“I like to get my sleep in the fore part of the night,” he often said.

Some of my most vivid memories are of the times we would visit my grandparents on vacation and I would wake up to the smell of fresh coffee and frying bacon at around four in the morning. Quite often, I got up and ate with Papa.

Upon reflection, I don’t think Papa’s sleep pattern had much to do with genetics. He was the father of 11 children and I suspect that those early morning hours were the only quiet times he could find for himself.

I have tried all kinds of sleep remedies but nothing really seems to have a lasting effect. It seems that no matter what time I go to bed, I wake up around 5 AM. I can go to bed at 4 AM and, if I fall asleep, I will still wake up at five.

As a result, I have come to accept the fact that sleep is not my strong suit. However, I am better than I used to be. Nowadays I don’t sleepwalk and, as long as I keep that towel under the door, I rarely think about the Blob.