When I was about four-years-old, we lived in Springville, Utah (a cruelty in and of itself because I had a pronounced lisp). We were looking for a house in the B.Y.U. area, so we were renting the top of someone else’s house. Don’t ask me why we lived upstairs and they lived in the basement; that’s never made sense to me.
One day, my Mother was in the bedroom with my older sister helping her get ready to go to kindergarten. She also had my younger sister with her. For some reason, the door to the bedroom jammed and they could not open it; they tried everything. Finally, my mother called to me. She wrote a note in crayon, slipped it under the door, and told me to take it to the people downstairs. I should explain that I knew these people. Their teenage daughter babysat us sometimes, we saw them regularly. Nevertheless, I was so shy that I couldn’t fathom walking down the stairs and actually speaking to them.
I opened the door to the top of the stairs and just stood there. I don’t remember how long I remained petrified at the top of the stairs, but finally, in desperation, I threw the note down the stairs and ran away. Did I think the clamorous smack of that piece of paper would alert them to the fact that we needed help? I don’t know; in fact, I don’t remember what, exactly, I did after that.
The DID find that paper, ironically enough – I’ve no idea how. They pulled my older sister out of the window so that she could get to kindergarten and then they took the door off the hinges to rescue my mother and my baby sister.