Yet another childhood story of mine that everyone seems to delight in hearing, God only knows why. But I do love torturing my mother with it.
I had a bookcase in my childhood bedroom. It was a long, heavy thing, maybe 4 feet high. It sat underneath my bedroom window. When I was about 8 years old, I decided one night that I just had to climb partway up this thing to reach something on the windowsill. While I was clinging to the bookcase and straining to reach whatever it was I was hoping for, the bookcase slowly began to tilt toward the ground. Where it landed. With me underneath, waving my little hands on either side of my face and yelling “Help! Help!” I could hear my mother in the living room, so I yelled a little louder, “Help! Help!” To which she replied, with great irritation, “I’m on the phone!!”
Since I wasn’t in pain or distressed, just immobile, I patiently waited there. I sang a couple of songs to myself and gazed upon my little hands, trapped on either side of my face beneath the big heavy bookcase. When, thirty minutes later, my mother walked past my bedroom and saw me, she screamed “Oh my God! Are you okay? ” I looked up and said “I can’t move, Momma!” She freaked out, lifted the bookcase off of me, and checked me for bruises. Of course, I was fine. But she didn’t know that. So maybe I milked it for the evening and got a cookie. I don’t remember. But I do remember having to wait underneath a bookcase because she was talking on the phone.
My mother hates this story. Perhaps she thinks it makes her look like a bad mother? I don’t think it does. I find it highly amusing and everyone who has ever heard me tell this story likes to imitate the “Help! Help!” part, complete with hands near face. Especially around my mother. Ha ha!