Because I, personally, like a hobby that’s a challenge. And both of these are. It is not so easy to lie, as you might think. The closer you are to someone the craftier you have to be. But, I like that. I’ve always been good at crafts, thanks to Vacation Bible School.

Ask U.L.

He’s kept every single thing I ever made at VBS, with the exception of that frightening plastic Jesus-on-the-cross-shaking-hands-with-PawPaw objet d’art I made, when I was six. I don’t blame him for that, though; it’s difficult to know how long these things should bake in the oven before they’re ready. Also, why on earth six-year-olds would be given anything, plastic or otherwise, that required an oven is nothing I can fully explain.  Anymore than I can tell you why I received an Easy Bake for my seventh birthday.

Hide your secrets. He's back.

But, U.L., like it or not, would lie to me and say, “I love it.” And, sweet man that he is, kept everything like it was a treasure…some in public, but most of them in the cedar chest, “for safekeeping.”

I don’t want to flat out say I learned how to lie from him, but I can’t deny that it was a routine part of my upbringing, under the wily auspice of “sparing someone’s feelings.”

Because that’s not lying; that’s “good manners.” When you spare someone’s feelings.

Eavesdropping is another thing, altogether.

And no, it’s not the same as gossip. Technically speaking, you’re not actively participating in the gossip itself; you’re merely hearing it. It’s more like being a human garbage can for jealous, backbiting, enviable biddies and their wayward tongues.

And, who’s going to say a garbage can is a bad idea?  People don’t want trash in their lives. That’s how I think of gossip; it’s trash you can’t wait to get rid of. That’s why I eavesdrop; I’m the trash can. If your trash includes a commentary on the “pitiful woman who forgets to put a bra on when she cuts the yard, and doesn’t cut the yard until You Know Who gets off work because they’re having an affair ,” then I’m more than happy to eat your garbage.

That kind of trash is 100% pure treasure.

But it doesn’t always come easy. That’s why I have to lie, sometimes, to be honest.

A well-placed lie encourages confidence, and once confidence is attained, you can leech right onto their tongue and pull out all number of stories, rumors, beliefs, hopes, fears…

Maybe I’m just an evil person, like my Aunt Estelle says.

But, I don’t think I am; I don’t think I’m doing anything different than anybody else does, aside from admitting it.

I lie and eavesdrop because a) it makes me feel like a spy which is something I always wanted to be, and b) Why not. Nothing quelches a bad day like a good lie and a strong arm-shelf (which I imagine one would use with which to lean on, straining to overhear what shouldn’t be overheard). Oh, and FYI: “quelch” is a word in the same category as “ginormous.”

I heard she was made of ham.

I don’t do anything damaging, per se, with the information I make-up or overhear other than use it a base for a character, or a story line, or cocktail conversations because they’re not real.

And, hey, it’s not like I haven’t been lied to or gossiped about. Heck, I’m basically an urban legend…rumors about me are so old they’re just south of being a fine cheese.

I remember two, specifically:

1)  After my Oral Interp class one afternoon I had a strange, young man (whom I’d only met briefly, and by briefly I mean that he was coming into the party as I was leaving) approach me outside of McComas Hall and tell me he was praying for me.

I was touched if a bit put-off, but I said, “Thank you. May I ask why?”

“I heard,” he mumbled, “And we think you’re brave.”

A pause.

“I’m just, I’m very sorry for your illness,” he finished.

“Oh, OK. Well, thank you.”

I mean why tell him otherwise; attention is attention, and surely to God, by now he knows…or thinks I’m a survivor. He held the door open for me, patted me on the back. Suggested I eat peanuts, which I’m assuming was a clue as to what I was suffering from…or, perhaps he was hoping I was anaphylactic and this make for an “easy out.”

The second time was a bit harsher.

I was just nineteen, as thin as three seconds and a breath of air, and completely hairless (this was at the height of my sexual identity issues and eating disorder – more on that when I’m intoxicated), and for whatever reason, I was cast against type as Captain Brackett in South Pacific. This news made its rounds throughout the campus, like a fire-sale.

Even my Spanish Instructor had something to say about it, in front of the class, which resulted in a healthy bout of laughter.

I felt horribly miscast and overwhelmed, for the second time in less than a year, but I reminded myself that even amid the horrible anticipation of my role as Big Daddy, earlier that semester, I had managed somehow to get them on their feet for an exhaustingly, well- deserved ovation…and I do say so myself.

I’d just have to do it again.

After opening night, I was hesitant to attend the reception. I treaded to the dressing room, rinsed the make-up off, pulled on my civilian attire, which had just begun to include a hat, and put my glasses back on – I would just slip away, like that, nothing to it.

I tried to tiptoe through the side lobby, but a few other actors — some of the chorus of Seabees — were also exiting through that way, and we all got stopped by this achingly sweet elderly couple, holding punch and a shared paper plate of melons and strawberries.

You can always blame a strawberry. Always.

“OH! Here they are!  Trying to sneak off! Hey! Y’all did great!  Just great…such great voices!!”

(You should note: Captain Brackett doesn’t sing).

But they thought I was part of the Chorus…so, maybe I could slip on away…

“Thank you, thank you,” we murmured.

I took a step toward the doors, when I heard: “Even that Captain did a good job, but we’re confused about it, though.”

I couldn’t resist. This was eavesdropping at its best: they didn’t know who I was, at all!

“What about?”

“Well, as many people as are on this campus, I don’t understand why they let a girl play it. But, she was very good, all the same.”

I paused, swallowed, a bit excited and angry and proud and hurt.

I took off my cap, so they could get a good, full look at my face.

“I am that girl,” I said.

The woman reached her hand out, took mine in hers, and said, “And you do a real good job, honey.”

…

Liar.

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• But, wait, let me back up and come at this like a drill.

This is my family tree, ready for Christmas.

Even though, I don’t really know my “real” nieces and nephews. I’ve seen Millie, once; I’ve seen Auden, once; I’ve never meet Vinnie. So, to make up for this: I give all my grand uncle-ness to a series of young cousins, whose mothers I grew up with, as my nieces, being the baby of the adopted family I claimed with their grandmother, who I took as my—

You know what, let me scratch that.

It’s too confusing.

My family tree, you know, is really just an assortment of random branches that were blown down during a storm, and happend to fall around an exposed root out in the yard. So, we’ll go with that.

Again. Ahem: I like to think I’m a good uncle.

I spend each Sunday afternoon with my current batch of nephews: A.K., 4; Conn, 3; and Wynn, 2. I do everything I can to encourage their imaginations (i.e., taking a puzzle box top and making into a pirate’s hat), but, every now and then they surprise me with their own little internal thinking skills.

For example: A.K. told me once when he grew up he wanted to be either a ninja or a box of crayons. When I asked him Why (for the box of crayons), he said, Well, everybody I know likes crayons.

Brilliant, huh? And somehow poignant.

Sometimes, it’s just plain funny what they say…and do. Last weekend, for instance, we were playing one of their favorite games. It’s called Crazy Bulls. And here’s how you play it: everyone crawls on all fours, making any very loud sound they care to, then they do a “bull run” down the long, long green carpet hallway at Nana’s, and then the Farmer has to give them candy.

This is played in rotation for…oh, let’s say, two hours.

So, last Sunday, we’re playing this game, and I’m the Farmer, and I’m running them down the hall (actually, I sat in the recliner at the east end of Nana’s house, where the family den is – we sit there after dinner and watch some television show about cows, ironically. We have a cattle farm, that’s why; I mostly just read the paper, as I don’t really care for cows as far as prime time viewing is concerned), anyway, I sat in the recliner and just watched them run back and forth, up and down the hall.

I'll read anything that keeps my eyes off a cow.

I was halfway through the Foxtrot comic when I heard Conn say, “Whew!” and then collapse. I jumped up and hoped he was fine (we’re having several medical scares with his health, as of late).

He was completely fine, though. Don’t worry.

I got down the hall, to him, and I said, “Conn, are you OK, buddy?”

He nodded, and looked up and said, “Yeah. Let’s just pretend like I’m a dead bull.”

He’s 3, for crying out loud.  

I can’t remember when I first even knew what death was, let alone want to play dead. I don’t think I started that until I was, at least, in first grade, which would be what six, and I didn’t want to do the May Day school production. I figured Conn must be tired, is all…

So, I started to say No, Conn, no dead bulls today. Let’s just take a break…but A.K. intervened.

“That’s not right, Conn.” (Good, good, A.K. will talk some sense into him, I thought).

“What, AA?” (That’s what Conn calls him).

“That’s not right!” (A.K. was getting a little loud, but I stood by, observing the natives in their natural habitat).

“What is.”

“Bulls don’t die like that! Gosh! They fall on their sides.”

At which point, Conn got up and proceeded to die, time after time, until A.K. pronounced it “good enough to do.” This took quite awhile; I had two pieces of Scotch Chocolate cake in the interim. Wynn, having found his way back to his own dinner plate (and believe me, he eats enough) decided he was through with deviled eggs and brown sugar ham. He was going to die like a real bull, too. Though it came out more like, “Ido wi’AA and Con-Con, me.”

I’m not sure how many minutes passed, in reality, but at some point, Nana came down the hall because “it’d gotten too quiet.” That’s how we bring up all children in our family: by ear. It’s also, incidentally, how one of my sisters learned to play the piano and my patience.

Nana came around the corner, and I’m sure Had She Not Loved and Brought Me Up with U.L., she would have thought I’d killed three children. They were all very silent I must agree, and laying on their sides, their little tongues sticking out. A.K. had been stubbornly insistent that they do this the right way or not at all.

(He is his mother’s son, of course).

He can't even get a Capitol One credit card.

But, what he hadn’t figured on was just how tired they all three were. And as I stood by, ever vigilant, he could have no way of knowing that I was simply allowing them to wear themselves out. I motioned to Nana to walk softly, just in case I was right.

And I was.

By the time she stepped down into the sitting room, where we’d been playing, all three of the boys were completely asleep. They looked dead, I know, but they weren’t. They were in a mad, fast world of dreams, and Wynn, as he usually does when he naps, had a slap-happy grin on his face.

God, I’d love to know what he dreams about.

I also wished I’d had a camera; it was such a sweet picture. All the more so, when you know just how aggravating three boys can be. I’ve got a white hair for each of them, but I learned a valuable lesson, all the same: it’s not always a bad thing to be bull-headed.

Especially not if, in the end, it helps you go to sleep.

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