I must have been nine years old.
My parents hired a babysitter. For the first time ever, my sitter was Theresa, our teenage neighbor, instead of Grace, the plump and kindly 60-something-year-old woman who grew African Violets by her kitchen window and watched soap operas every afternoon.
Theresa might even play with me! My mind was wild with possibilities, but I ended up deciding to play “M*A*S*H.” If I could make a tent, Theresa could be a nurse or doctor and we could pretend to take care of injured soldiers.
I found the doctor’s bag my mom had put together with fake thermometers, a stethoscope and bandages to play with. Then I ran upstairs and pulled out some gauzy fabric that I found in a rarely accessed closet. I’d use it to make a light and breezy tent in the living room.
After propping up a broom in the middle of the room, I centered the fabric over the end of the broomstick and then started pulling the corners of the fabric out, weighing them down with heavy objects.
Theresa held the corners until I searched hurriedly around the room for solutions—I used a few books for one corner, the leg of a chair for another.
“Are you sure your parents won’t mind you making this tent?”
“Nope! I do it all the time!” I assured her. I still needed something low and heavy for the last two corners.
I ran into another room and opened the door to a low storage cabinet. I knelt down and peered inside. Mom and Dad collected all kinds of odds and ends from auctions. Who knows what I might find under there? Hopefully something heavy enough to finish making my tent.
I moved some items to the side and reached for something stuck way in the back. As soon as I slid it forward, I knew it would work. I was heavy. Solid, yet not too big.
It was made of a smooth material, sort of chiseled or carved into an intricate pattern. I didn’t know what it was—maybe a vase—but it felt like it was made of marble. I vaguely remembered that it might have come from my grandmother, but I wasn’t sure. All I was thinking about was the tent, and this was the perfect size and weight to hold down a corner.
I brought it into the living room where Theresa was waiting, holding the tent together with a foot on one part and a hand on the broom.
“Let’s use this!” I said, showing her the item.“Are you sure your parents won’t mind?”
Honestly I wasn’t sure. Not at all. Dad got upset about a lot of things, so we never knew what was safe to try. But I wanted to play M*A*S*H, so I said, “I’m sure!”
I set the vase on the fabric. Perfect! It held everything taut enough to stay aloft without tearing it. I fixed up the last corner and we started to play.
We started unloading imaginary choppers that had flown in imaginary soldiers that we brought into the tent so we could tend their wounds. Theresa went along with everything. The tent was very tight for one person, let alone two. I scraped against the fabric, tugging it as I bustled around.
Thunk!
The vase. The vase! The solid, smooth, carved vase had fallen over.
It broke clean in half.
This couldn’t be happening. When things broke at our house, Dad got furious, and here was this green thing. This big heavy carved thing that may have come from his mother.
This was bad. Very bad. Very scary.
I acted like it wasn’t any big deal so that Theresa wouldn’t suspect anything. I joked about it and said it was some old thing they didn’t care about. “I’ll just stick it away.” I could barely stand to look at it. I was shaking when I picked up the two pieces, but I set the top on the bottom. They fit together perfectly—I could hardly see the break. I set the vase in its spot way in the back of the cabinet, the top resting on the bottom. It seemed stable, so I left it there, repositioning everything the way it was before.
My heart was pounding. Would Mom and Dad find out? When would they discover it? They rarely opened that cabinet and things could remain untouched for years. I took a deep breath, closed the cabinet, and returned to the living room. I told Theresa I was done playing M*A*S*H anyway; that I wanted to play Barbies instead.
When Mom and Dad came home, and all I could think about was the vase. My face was flushed, I’m sure, and my heart was still beating big.
Nobody said a thing about the vase. Theresa must not have mentioned it.
Next day, nothing was said. I relaxed a little but still felt the rush of fear each time I thought about it—the heat of guilt seemed to rise within each time I passed the cabinet, imagining the broken vase inside, wondering when it would be discovered.
Time passed, and the fear faded. I didn’t think about the vase that often. I could pass the cabinet without a lump of panic rising inside. But the dizzying possibility that Dad might question me about it remained. If he found the vase—if he asked who broke it—what would I say?
More time passed—I don’t remember how long. Weeks, maybe months. Could have been a year. But at some point, they discovered the vase.
Dad was angry. So angry. His voice thundered: Who broke my mother’s vase? He questioned my brother. Did you break it? My brother didn’t know a thing about it.
With only two kids in the family, I was the only one left to ask. I was so afraid—what would Dad say and do if I admitted my guilt? He was determined to get to the bottom of it. I thought I might break in half just standing there.
He turned to me. Did you break it?
I shrugged. I said “No.”
So stupid to lie! Obviously I was the one! They asked again, maybe multiple times. Somebody broke it! But I continued to deny it. I must have added something convincing, something like, “I’ve never seen that thing” or “Weird—I wonder how that happened?”
Somehow, I got out of it.
They stopped asking.
They put away the vase, and I didn’t get blamed.
But I had to live with myself.
I broke it. And I lied about breaking it.
Every once in a while I would remember the vase. I would remember its weight and the intricate carving along the side. I would remember being interrogated and how angry Dad was and my fear of submitting to what he might immediately dispense as punishment.
I felt another wave of guilt.
But I never told. Years passed, and I never told.
I went to college, but I didn’t tell even then.
I got a job after graduation and worked for a church. I got married a few years later, when I was 24 years old, and still, I never told.
Then one day—I may have been in my upper 20s or into my 30s—I went to my parents’ house for a birthday party or something.
And there, on a side table, stood the vase.
Nobody was in the room, so I walked over and touched it. I lifted it very carefully by the base. Somebody had glued it together. You couldn’t see the break at all.
That familiar haunting sense of guilt shot through me just looking at it. But after all these years, should I admit my guilt? It was so long ago.
I pointed to the vase when my mom came in the room. “Hey, what’s this?” I asked, as casually as possible.
“It’s Grandmother’s vase,” she said. “It got broken years ago. I think it’s made of soapstone, and that’s kind of a soft material, but we never did figure out how it broke.”
Dad came in the room and sat on a chair, relaxed and casual.
I took a deep breath. “I have something I need to tell you,” I began. I decided to just get it all out, all at once. “When I was little, I was playing in the living room, making a tent. I needed something to weigh down the corner, and I found this vase. I used it, but it tipped over and broke.”
“You broke it?”
“Yes, I broke it. And when you asked me, I was so scared of what you would do that I lied about it.”
You know what?
They laughed.
Photo of the actual vase taken by Lynn Hopper.
“Ann Kroeker. Writer.”
I should say so. You are a fabulous storyteller.
Funny thing: Just the other day, Lydia (also 9) was making a tent in the living room and was finding heavy things to hold down the blankets. Just like this!! She used my Christmas centerpiece to hold one corner, and it went crashing to the floor. I was able to repair it.
I can’t wait to show her your story!
Oh, no! Not the Christmas centerpiece?
I’m glad you were able to repair the centerpiece, as my mom and dad eventually repaired the vase.
I love that they laughed!
Just imagine all the guilt we carry around simply because we won’t fess up in the moment…so thankful it is never too late to make things write…heh,heh…right!
Good words, Sarah: “it is never too late to make things right.”
This made me think about that Brady Bunch episode where they broke a vase! I loved that you played M*A*S*H. It is still my fave sitcom ever.
Oh my goodness!! I think I just found it on YouTube, Teresa:
Pt. 1
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zc3TGRL8Q8Q
Pt. 2
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wEIcL0vjNXY&feature=related
Can’t easily find Pt. 3, but isn’t it amazing to have the first two parts?
Found it!
Pt. 3
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pgrZilTA4zo&feature=related
I wonder if the punishment is ever worse than the guilt we have to carry around when we don’t ‘fess up? Oh Ann – I can identify with this.
And I agree with Jennifer – you are a gifted story-teller. I was totally captivated.
Have a blessed Christmas Ann!
I don’t know what my parents would have done if I’d told, but I do know that being riddled with guilt was a kind of punishment.
If your dad was anything like mine, I don’t blame you for lying. I received beatings when I told the truth or lied, because he always knew It was me! Carring the pain of guilt for that many years was difficult for you, and I am happy that they were able to finally laugh about the vase. My husband wrote a post about my statue “Ruth” that our young grandson who broke it on purpose. You may need to copy and paste the site.
http://musingsbyrobert.blogspot.com/2010/09/ruthie.html
I loved your husband’s post about the statue “Ruth” and the real Ruth!
I kept hearing the “sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton” as I read, wondering about the beating heart….
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! –tear up the planks! here, here!”
Wonderful story. From one who routinely admitted to the deeds done by my older siblings to avoid the agonizing process of ferreting out the truth, I loved this. (And if you were not a reader of Poe, I apologize for the cryptic comment.)
Poe! I sent my high school students to this post because I started telling them an adaptation of the story in class. Last year I introduced some of them to Poe, and one girl in particular is a big fan. I hope she reads through the comments to pick up on your allusions! She’s going to love your sense of humor and literary connection!
Well, I wouldn’t have done anything. It’s an ugly vase. But as you know, I have no power over what you father would or wouldn’t have done. But if he really treasured it, he wouldn’t have been using it as a doorstop….
I don’t remember that…or….was it the downstairs bedroom door? Maybe it’s coming back to me. And if that’s where I saw it when I was nine, maybe I really DID think that you wouldn’t care!
How could it survive as a door stop?
Oh my gosh. I just hate that “lump of panic rising inside” feeling! Ann, I love childhood stories like this. I had a few secrets of my own that I later told my parents. I sure appreciated their laughter over the yelling and getting whipped with my dad’s belt. 🙂 But when you said you “would remember its weight,” that got me. Those little lies sure anchor themselves for years until we cut them loose with the truth.
Yes, you’ve hit on the deeper questions here, Brock. I wonder if I got by with it? I didn’t get spanked (I’m not sure what they would have done, but boy, was Dad mad)…but I also lived with the weight of my lie for a very long time.
this is delightful.
i am smiling and memories are flowing through my mind.
i tell my kids it’s always better when you tell the truth… if only i knew that as a child.
that fear of the unknown, of the “what if” is so strong to children. i will try and remember this, to add this bit of grace to my parenting.
thanks so much ann
I think I needed to tell it for myself, too, as a parent…to remember not to cause my child to sin because they are so fearful to admit the truth and accept an appropriate consequence.
Yeah, but I bet dad wouldn’t have been laughing when you confessed it then. ALthough I’m sure he would have gotten over it and probably it would not be half as bad as you built up in your mind. I find my parents too are all sorts of forgiving and forgetful now when they think back on the things we did as kids. Aw, it’s all water under the bridge, right? Who cares anymore!
Great story, Ann!
You are absolutely right–Dad wasn’t laughing and wouldn’t have been if I’d ‘fessed up. He might have brought it up a lot over the years, too, just to make me feel bad. But…with time, the anger was gone and only curiosity remained, after the repair was made.
Ahh, the cleansing power of confession. 🙂
What a beautiful and unusal vase! So glad it was saved and restored – just like Jesus does for us.
MERRY CHRISTMAS, my friend.
It’s so great to hear from you, Rachel! It certainly is…unusual. Mom doesn’t think so (she’d rather stick it away in the cabinet, hidden from view! :).
Merry Christmas to you, and Happy New Year!
Really a great story. I heard Glenn beck say the other day, “Our mission as humans should be to tell the truth, every day.”
It makes life so much easier!
That’s a good word–our mission should be to tell the truth. And the truth shall set us free.
This story just goes to show that some confessions really should be saved until parents are better able to handle them! I bet that wouldn’t have laughed if you’d admitted it at the time.
Great storytelling, Ann!
Yes, as I mentioned to Bradley above, you are right–my dad wouldn’t have laughed and certainly wasn’t laughing at the time. Even if I’d just waited a couple of weeks and brought it up, it might have gone more smoothly. The fury of the moment was too frightening!
I love this story, Ann! I was on the edge of my seat, wondering if you would finally admit the truth. My dad was prone to pretty violent outbursts of anger, so I can totally relate to the fear. I would have lied, too. I bet it felt pretty good when you finally told the truth though…especially when everyone laughed!
“Violent outbursts of anger.” That sums up a lot of my childhood. I’m sorry you had to endure a lot of that, as well, Michelle.
What a story. The way guilt riddles us with holes…well, I reckon it is good. It’s actually a gift, don’t you think?
I had done something very naughty in my youth. I even dragged my little sister into the cover-up scheme. We were in the clear, but my heart was not. So when my mamma got home, I confessed the whole sorted thing. I got grounded for an entire month and my poor sister got one week for her coerced participation.
Then on some other things, I waited until I was an adult to come clean. Like your folks, my mamma laughed, but I reckon she would’ve whooped my hind-quarters had I told her years ago…
Your words are always a treasure. Thank you!
Have a blessed Christmas, Ann!
Oh, man, I can’t believe your sister got penalized for “coerced participation!”
You had a fresh conscience–how good to act on that nudge and get it out in the open! You’re a truth-teller, and the world needs truth tellers to bring us all into the light.
The tab’s been open on my browser for almost a week and I’m just now reading this. I’m ever so glad I didn’t close the tab! I was completely breathless as I read, feeling the weight of my own mistakes and lies over the years. Thankful for grace!
Cheryl, I’m so glad you shared this with me!
Nothing like an auction to bring out storytelling opportunities! I loved this, Ann.
Thanks for reading and sharing it. Writing from objects has created a surge of memories.
Wow, that’s a long time to hang onto the truth. I think I would have had to come clean, too.
Dawn, you are right. It’s ridiculously long.