Once upon a time…

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
And when she was good, she was very very Good
And when she was bad, she was Horrid.

That was a rhyme my mother told me many, many times when I was a child. I believe she meant it to describe me. Of course, I think of myself as a totally sweet, big blue-eyed, curly-headed little girl with a streak of adventure. I’d do almost anything on a dare. But I was also kind to animals and did mostly what I was supposed to do. I think the operative word there is “mostly”. I strayed occasionally although not really on purpose. I didn’t INTEND to be naughty. It just sneaked up on me.

I remember very clearly a time when I caused some chaos – unintentionally of course.  I was in first grade, six years old. I walked to school each day with my friend Billy Baird who lived next door. He would come to my door, or I would go to his in the morning and we’d set off together for the three blocks to Woodland Elementary School. One day, I stopped by his house and his mom told me Billy was ill. He had a cold. She asked me to tell our teacher that he would not be at school for a day or two. I was a bit miffed because I had something really important to talk to Billy about. I went to school and when I arrived, a funny thing happened.

My teacher asked why Billy wasn’t with me.

“Well,” says I. “Billy had a terrible accident. He is very sick, has a bad high fever and broke his bones and wouldn’t be coming back to school maybe for the WHOLE year.”

Our teacher was very worried, a reaction I expected. At recess, I repeated the story to other classmates expressing great emotion and concern. They too were curious about what happened. I declined to give any other details, telling them I’d let them know more later. I think I believed I could get some mileage out of that attention if I continued to add to it daily.

After school, I walked home. My nanny gave me my snack and I played outside and all was well until my mother arrived home from work.

“What exactly happened at school today?” her voice was stern and accusatory.
“Ummmm.” I couldn’t think for the life of me why she was mad. “We played skip rope at recess. I got to do double dutch,” I offered.
“What about Billy?”
“He didn’t go to school today. He was sick.” I still wasn’t catching on.
“How sick was he?”

Now a light was dawning.

“Aaaaaa.”
“Did you tell your teacher he was in an accident? Did you tell her he’d be out of school for the rest of the year?”
“Aaaaaa.”

Now remember – this was in olden days before instant communication and cell phones. How in the world did SHE know what I said at school?

“You told a lie, Diana. A whopper. You have to apologize to Billy’s mom, the teacher, and the whole class.”

My knees turned to jelly. My insides churned. “It was just a story.” I stammered.

“It was a lie and many people were concerned”, she repeated. “Your teacher was very upset and after school called Billy’s mom to find out what happened to Billy. Mrs. Baird, called me at work and let me know what you did. Now you have to face up to it and let everyone know you are a liar.”

She marched me next door to tell Billy’s mom I was sorry. Billy stood behind her with a big smirk on his silly face. I stuck my tongue out at him as my mom turned to leave after a brief conversation with Mrs. Baird. I went to bed that night hoping the angels would take me to heaven.

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die (please, please) before I wake
I pray to God my soul to take.

I survived the night and, with extreme reluctance and a very dry throat, walked to school with my mother to tell the class that I told a story. No, Mom insisted, I lied.

It seemed an injustice to me that my story was more interesting than Billy’s, but I was being punished. After all, I didn’t hurt Billy. He was fine. No harm, no foul. He went back to school the following Monday (I didn’t walk to school with him) and everyone crowded around HIM telling HIM I had lied about his cold. HE was the big deal, not me. It took a few days for the storm to pass. I was shunned by all except my best friend Lois who forgave me instantly. Finally, everyone seemed to forget about it and life continued in its pleasant middle-class suburban way. But the storyteller in me grew and grew. And now I can write stories, and no one can stop me.  Did I learn a lesson? Guess not.