The Art of Lying Pt. 1

Ben's comment on my post yesterday set me to thinking about some of the finer lies I've told in my life--and some of the terrible ones that helped me become the accomplished embellisher that I have become today. And since I'm thinking about it, I figured I might as well share.

As Ben mentioned, I have something of a sordid history of "storytelling." Ben, of course, isn't really one to cast aspersions for such storytelling as he, himself, has been caught in a few doozies in his time as well. I seem to recall one time when he came home drunk, in high school, and tryed to convince Mom that he was entirely sober. Because I am old, I can't remember most of the specifics anymore, but I think there was something about him wearing his jacket upside down (or maybe it was inside out) and repeating some line or other over and over again while trying to convince her that he wasn't drunk. Crap I wish my memory was better. Hopefully he'll feel obliged to set the record straight and reply to this post with an accurate reminiscence.

Anyway, the first "big" lie I remember telling happened when I was about six or seven years old. Or maybe I was five or eight. Who knows. Without some sort of definite landmark event like a school event or a vacation, all of those early years sort of meld together. I was young, though, I know that, because I was still naming the calves I was tasked to take care of things like Flowers and Stick and Red (Flowers and Red actually stuck around in our herd for quite some time--Red even making it well into high school or early college when another cow, also named Red, would replace her as My Cow [each of us would be given our own cow until the time Dad gave up on cattle all together]). If memory serves, Red was the very calf that I was supposed to be feeding on the night of the Whooping.

Perhaps just a touch more build up is required. Just about as early as was feasibly possible, all of us boys were assigned Chores that we were to do on a daily basis--usually once in the morning and once in the evening. These Chores tended to center around whatever young animals we had that needed special care--rabbits or sheep when we were showing these in 4-H or, more usually, baby calves that, for one reason or another, needed to be fed formula bottles until they were old enough to wean (an interesting side note, baby formula actually smells almost identical to the stuff that we used to feed calves, so ponder on that for awhile). Often we were also responsible to feed some alfalfa or grain to some cows or other as part of these Chores, and it was one such responsibility that I decided to shirk on the night in question.

Despite the fact that the Chore was really rather simple--put about four inches of grain in a bucket and dump it in a trough--I decided that I didn't want to do it. As dark approached, Dad asked if I had done my Chores and I claimed that I had. At first, it seemed like I'd gotten away with the lie because Dad left it at that, but about five minutes later he found me and asked again if I had done my chores. I stuck with my story and he notified me that he knew I was lying. Apparently, it's pretty easy to tell when a cow hasn't been fed when it is standing expectantly by the gate, waiting for food, AND none of the buckets or grain show any signs of being disturbed since the last time Dad had used them earlier. How was I to know that Dad was actually paying attention to things? Stupid observations.

Anyway, he gave me a chance to get my story straight, which I stubbornly declined, and then I received the Whooping. I received many such whoopings as a child, because I was a bit of a turd, but this is really the only one that sticks to memory. Perhaps it was the story that went along with it, or perhaps it was the setting--a cool, spring evening. More than likely, it was the one inch thick yard stick that Dad used to administer my punishment. It was a freebie from a booth at the State Fair--and I've spent much of my adult life trying to find a replica of the thing for my personal collection of obscure reminders of my youth, without success--and from that point on it would be my least favorite measuring stick in the world.

Upon reflection, I'm sure Dad didn't whoop me THAT hard. There was no bruise afterward, but I do remember stripping down and looking at my bare ass and seeing a red mark there shortly after the incident. So it was a substantial whooping. Regardless of its actual intensity, it was a Whooping that stuck with me, and from that day forward I went from Casual Liar to Accomplished Falisfier for fear of future retributions--as NOT lying was clearly not an option. I made sure to think through my options as clearly as possible before trying to lie my way through any given situation. And, for the most part, it's worked out pretty well for me.

To date, I've never again been caught in another big lie (though, really, there is only one other Big Lie that I can think of, and that will be a story for my next post).