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| mission accomplished |
My sister and I have long been avid collectors of free things. When we were little we would rip out the cards in my mother’s romance novels and we would subscribe her to the “book of the month club” because it came with free gifts. Little did we realize my mother would later have to deal with canceling all of these subscriptions. All we care about was the free stuff.
Our lifelong passion for the free can be culminated into one event: The day we stole the couch.
One Sunday morning as our family was headed to church, we noticed the most beautiful couch sitting across the street from our house with a sign proclaiming, “ Free For the Taking.” In the backseat of our van I looked at my sister. She looked at me. I mouthed, “Sunday School?” She nodded her agreement. We knew my mother would never let us have it. BUT WE HAD TO HAVE IT.
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| It had to be mine. |
All through the first hour of church my heart beat fast. I schemed. I plotted. I couldn’t focus on religion at a time like this! There was a couch to be covertly placed somewhere in the basement where my mother wouldn’t notice. My first thought was my room. Of course it wouldn’t fit. I already had two easy chairs I had gotten for free from other instances like this. My sister’s room was right across from my parents. It couldn’t go there either. They would spot it in a minute. I sat there, filled with fear that someone had already picked up our gorgeous couch while I was helplessly stuck under adult supervision.
Finally—Youth Sunday School. Nobody would know we were gone. Our teacher was too overwhelmed with other more obnoxious young worshippers to notice we were missing. My sister met me at the door. We cantered in our high heels along the sidewalk, bustling in our Sunday best until we arrived home. There was no time to change, we would have to do this in skirts. Yes! The couch was still there. Still mine. Still as beautiful as ever. We only had an hour to get this in the house.
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| Yup.That's how I felt. |
Getting it across the street was easy enough. Getting it in the door was harder. Getting it down the stairs was hardest. As we were struggling to get it through the narrow stairway, my thigh became wedged between the couch and the wall. I was stuck fast for several minutes while dear sister finished her laughter. Tears were shed (from glee on her part and pain on mine). I felt like Winnie the Pooh, when he gets stuck in the hole and Rabbit turns his read end into a wall decor. I would spend the rest of my life on the stairs. At least I could spend it with my new free couch.
Minutes more of pushing and pulling and finally I budged. The clock was ticking. My stupid thigh had really strained our time limit. Where were we going to put this thing? My sister suggested we cover it in a sheet. Maybe Mom will think it is a pile of boxes shaped like a couch with a sheet over it? Good enough.
As we walked back to church, the gravity of the situation sank in. Each step got heavier and heavier. Our mom was going to kill us. That couch would once again become homeless, living on the street like some abandoned puppy with Victorian accents.
We knew there was only one thing to do. Go to our Bishop and confess our wrong doing. Maybe if my mom found out from him we would be in less trouble? It was worth a shot. We saw him from across the foyer. I burst into tears. (I was already emotionally compromised from my Winnie the Pooh moment). We begged him not to leave us alone with our mother. He looked bewildered. He said he would watch out for us, but I think it was only to get me to stop bawling.
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| That's me on the left. Tara in the middle. Taylor on the right. |
The instant my mother saw us she knew. Actually she said the moment she saw the free couch on the street she knew it would end up on in her basement. She promised the Bishop that she wouldn’t hurt us. Then he walked away. As she led us to our pew for the last hour of church, she threatened us with her eyes. We knew the moment we left the sanctuary of the chapel that we would be in for it. I kept replaying scenes of the Hunchback of Notre Dame in my mind, except I was the beautiful gypsy and my sister was the hunchback. For fun I also pretended my brother was a gargoyle. We would spend the rest of our days in this chapel, living off of discarded cheerios left by children. “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”
When we got home my mother told us we could keep the couch if we put the broken rocking loveseat out in the street. It was a hard choice but clearly the new couch was superior to old Rocky. Yet again, while in church clothes, my sister and I moved a piece of furniture. I was very careful about where my thighs were this time.
It was hard to leave Rocky in the street. But it was for a higher cause. We ran inside and sat on our prize. We spied from a window a few hours later as a truck stopped and took Rocky home. Rest in peace Rocky.
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| Our prize |
Years later my gargoyle brother sat on our stunning couch and wisely pontificated these words: “Couches last a long time, if you know what you are doing.” One day I hope to needle point those words on a throw pillow. Here’s to you, you intoxicatingly exquisite sofa. I raise a can of Shasta in your honor. You were worth the emotional and physical pain.
