Lying can leave you with a framed reminder

I don't like lying. I don't like to do it myself and I don't like it when someone does it to me. I know a liar, she's not just a liar, but an enhancer, a stretcher and a drama queen. And it's hard to even have a conversation with her. So, you have to take everything she says and boil it down to what is plausible, what could be truthful and what might have actually been. Then you might just have to ask someone else to get the real story.

I've confessed that I'm not good at lying. I guess that's a good thing. However, I'm not always good at clarifying. Why try. . . most of the time people don't even hear me. And, you would think I would have learned the lesson of the importance of full disclosure. . . at a very early age.

You see, it happened when I was about six years old, the bestowing of this important life lesson: sins of omission are sins just the same.

When I was in first grade I walked to school, this isn't an important thing to know now, but it plays in later. In addition, next door to us was a handsome and cool post-college aged guy that I had a huge crush on. (Never fear, he was no perv or anything, just a neato guy wearing cutoffs and reading big thick books on his front porch. Oh and he drove a Pacer. . . too cool, cutoffs and a hatchback.)

On with the story. A few times a week my first grade teacher (the one with bright red hair, a fact that isn't relative to this story) would lead us in an art project. In the process she would create an art piece of her own, as an example. We all aspired to create something as beautiful as she, but alas, we always fell short, carrying home misshapen paper mache' Easter eggs or crumpled paper hats.

The coolest part of art day was that at the end of it, she would choose a student who behaved the best, worked the hardest and was a model for others. That kid would get the sample art project and walk out that afternoon beaming, knowing they were the best of the best, one of the chosen few.

It was the day we painted autumn trees, starting with the trunk and adding orange and yellow leaves all along the base and on the limbs we'd carefully stroked onto the paper. And it was on that day she chose me to be the recipient of her work. I was thrilled, absolutely thrilled. I am certain I even skipped home.

When I got there my mother greeted me at the door and asked to see the artwork tucked beneath my arm. I showed her, all ready to explain that I was The Chosen One, the best kid, the one that got the artwork. This in itself was something to be proud of.

Before I got one word out, she started in with the compliments, amazed that a first grader with apparently few artistic skills could create something so beautiful. She went on and on and on. The detail. The attention to color. The careful paint strokes. Keep in mind that my mother doesn't freely give compliments, in fact, she never gives them.

And then it happened, the point of no return: she bragged to the Pacer-driving neighbor as he walked out of the house to take his seat on his front porch swing. He bounded across the yard spanning between us beaming, then patting me on the head, pouring on the kudos. I knew at that point there was no going back. I never took credit openly, but I never clarified the situation. I had missed my opportunity.

It only got worse when she showed my dad. I would have done anything to impress my dad, from learning to walk on homemade stilts to reading "Ulysses" at far to early an age, and that sealed the deal. I'd never be able to admit my sin of omission.

Eventually my parents even framed the artwork and it hung in our central room for a very long time. I cringed when I saw it, it was a thorn in my side, a reminder of the lie that was never told, but never cleared-up either.

I think I was in middle school before I finally came clean. I went through a phase where I felt the need to confess everything to my parents. Apparently, I had taken my Baptist/Methodist/Catholic upbringing seriously and guilt set in. I would literally wake up my parents at night and confess everything from hitting my brother to leaving my bike out in the rain; to which I'd get a "You are forgiven, go to bed."

It was on one of those nights that I finally owned up to the tree painting debacle. And the next day, without a word, it was removed from the wall.

Whenever I got my first place, they gave me the picture, but I can't bear to hang it. I'm still ashamed. . . but it might be a good reminder to me: own up to your mistakes, tell the truth and remember that not speaking up is as good as lying. Plus, it really isn't half bad to look at. That red-headed first grade teacher had some potential.

Edited to add: I'm not sure what made me write this little story and share it with you guys; I think it's that lately I have been reminded of life lessons and the moments in your life when you actually capture them. This was one of those. . . that and I am also reminded that lying is an ugly, ugly thing.