Confessions

I have decided to occasionally write stories about my past. These will be stories from my perspective and may not be totally accurate. If any of my family members want to contest the events of any particular story, go ahead. But this is my perspective after all and we all know perspective doesn’t necessarily mean exact fact. Contest away, but I'll be sticking to my story. So here we go:

When I was young, I attended a Japanese kindergarten. It was quite an adventure since I didn't speak a word of Japanese, but a positive one over all. In the mornings I would get dressed up in my kindergarten uniform--a little navy skirt and jacket, white shirt and a hat--and go wait for the yellow kindergarten bus outside my house. For some reason, the most coveted seat in the bus was right up front next to the teacher who accompanied us to school. How I wanted to sit in that seat! But I never did since I was always late getting to the bus stop (lateness is family trait, one which I have done my best not to abide by) and kids from the apartment complex across the street always piled on first, taking the best seats. The same went for the bus ride home. I was always too busy playing to care about where I was going to sit--that is until it came time to actually go home. Then I wished with all my heart that I could sit in that special seat.

There was one time, however, when fate smiled upon me in a sick, weird sort of way. The last thing we did before school was out for the day was have story time. I wasn't very fond of story time because, even though books had wonderful pictures, I could never understand the story. I preferred painting or sculpting since it didn't take a genius to figure out that we were all making elephants from pieces of clay. Story time was incredibly boring so I would sit at the back and fidget until it was over.

During this particular story time, I was sitting next to a pile of collapsed tables; the kind used for all sorts of picnicking and church events. Being bored as usual I started fidgeting. My fingers played their way across the folded ends of the table legs while my mind wandered in boredom. One especially curious finger ended up exploring the inside of one of the hollow table legs, where it promptly got stuck. My mind snapped back to reality and I tried to tug it loose. It didn't move. I yanked harder but it didn't budge. As I pulled and pulled desperation began to overwhelm me. I was seriously stuck! I needed help, but when I got the teachers attention by waving my free hand she only said, What ever it is it can wait till we're done with the story. I heartily disagreed.

When story time was over, all my classmates streamed out of the classroom rejoicing that school was over while I was left dejectedly stuck to my table. My teacher tugged on my finger a few times and then left when it didn't come free. I was alone, just me and my table in the deserted classroom. It was a lonely place to be. Convinced that I had been forgotten, I was surprised when my teacher returned with four other teachers. Together the five of them tried to pull my finger free. Of course, by this time my finger had become swollen and was appropriately embarrassed to show its fattened self to a group of teachers. A lot of pulling, yanking, prying and twisting was required to finally convince it to come loose. When it did, my finger was torn and bleeding in a number of places. Scratches were nothing new to me but my teachers panicked and insisted on wrapping my finger in white gauze. After making a sling for me out of more white gauze I officially looked like an invalid. And for some reason, I was proud of myself. I couldn't wait to get home and show my mom.

My encounter with the table had take up all of the after-school playtime and it was now time to get on the bus. Covered in white gauze, I was given the place of honor; The Seat Next To The Teacher. I was delighted. The whole way home I imagined how surprised and concerned my mom would be when she saw me. I felt like a wounded hero returning from war.

But when I got off the bus and met my mom, her reaction was thoroughly disappointing. There was no special treatment for this war hero. In matter of fact tones, she questioned me about what happened, took off the gauze and let me be with that. I moped around for a bit trying to relive the glorious treatment I had received at school and wishing my mom understood what an awesome enemy a table leg was. She should be happy I was alive....

Looking at my finger, I realized it did just look like a few normal scratches. Maybe this war hero should take on another challenge, I thought. One involving the large pine tree in the back yard.