The Lies We Tell

“…the tongue is a little member and boasteth great things.” James 3:5

Admit it…by the time you’ve read this you’ve layered your life with more lies, those uttered, and those received from others. Mostly the little ones that grease the gears of good public relations. Lies are a fact of life.

My father, a master inventor of such fiction, taught me this…he was a fisherman! The blame lies at the feet of women gardeners, but creative lying has been raised by fisherman from science to an art form.

The WSJ reported this week on spousal lying. It hinted that men lied in their responses, while women were truthful…mostly. But that’s not news…men occupy the world of sports, perfect incubators for fabrications. (Read political news if you’re unconvinced!) The article reminded me of some childhood experiences with fishermen.

Behold the Fisherman…
…he riseth early in the morning and disturbeth the whole household…Mighty are his preparations…He goeth forth full of hope and when the day is spent, he returneth smelling of strong drink and the truth is not in him…”

The large wooden plaque, the “fisherman’s creed,” varnished into a gleaming sheen, was hung in the back-door entry of my childhood home. Youthful memory gets foggy with years, but one thing is clear: before each fishing expedition, my father kneeled and swore allegiance to the Fisherman’s Creed as he departed into the darkness of early morning, hopeful and sober.

I was forced-marched on many of these rituals of maturation, but the thought of rolling out of bed at 3 AM in pursuit of the evasive Pisces was as repugnant as it was barbaric. I wanted no part of it. The thought of sitting in a boat, sweating under the blistering sun or enduring the freezing cold, was highly unappealing. Once I heard my father say to a companion, “James, that boy just ain’t right.” I’ve continued this sideways drift!

Sometimes I relented, going along to learn this art of embellishment. After all, it seemed to be a manly thing, riding endless miles in the back seat of a car, jostled like jelly along dusty dirt roads. Once I asked, “Dad, why can’t we sleep later and go to the pond closer to home?” Oh, the look. “Now son, don’t ask stupid questions…fish bite early, before dawn. We’ll be there in another hour or so.” I remained sullen all day.

My dad had an inhumane way of waking me for these Ramboesque adventures. He’d grab my big toe, jerk my leg from under the covers and swing it like a pendulum, often wrenching it from the hip joint. I would scream in agony at the torture, as if 3 AM wasn’t torture enough. A big knot remains a vestige of parental abuse.

I vividly recall one trip. I gorged myself that day with an excess of potted meat, spam and Vienna sausages, chased with four cokes and Hostess Twinkies. That trip ended abruptly, as I recall, when my stomach rebelled and the retching destroyed all hopes of catching fish from that creek. My father never forgave me for it.

Once I adamantly refused the insane 3 AM “invitation.” Awaking to the smell of bacon at 8 AM, I knew I’d made the better choice. After breakfast, with my rod and one lure, I walked about a quarter mile to the pond. In an hour I had caught more fish than I could tote. Jesus showed me where to cast! I was home by 10 AM and headed to the beach where girls were…I was able to work on some lies of my own.

Later that night my father and his buddies staggered in, apparently having ignored the Fisherman’s Creed that morning, full of tall tales, strong drink and an empty cooler. “Hey, Pop, look at what I caught at the pond.” Revenge is sweet! He didn’t speak to me for a week after that, but it ended the 3 AM disturbances. He died unrepentant in his convictions.

The WSJ article lacked consensus. Mom had it figured out, saying, “Boys, It’s not a lie if you can believe it.” It vindicated us all. In time she presented us a plaque given by Ladies Bible Auxiliary, called “The Angler’s Prayer:” “Lord, give me the Grace to catch a fish so big that when talking of it I may never need to lie.” To my knowledge my father and his pals never received this Grace. And with girls neither did I!

Why do we manipulate the truth in so many ways? Maybe it’s a matter of survival. What lie aided your survival today?

Bud Hearn
October 22, 2009