Nothing but the truth
I remember the end-of-the-year school assembly in 1962. I was eight. The audience was a bright flock, mothers in sheaths and suits, colorful imitations of Jackie Kennedy. I scanned the crowd for my mother. She sat toward the back, the cuffs of her blue jeans rolled above loafers and bobby socks. Was that my father's shirt? She was the only woman in the audience whose hair wasn’t sprayed into place. Her curls were free and wild. She didn't look like the other mothers. She looked great. I was delighted. My mother was a come-to-life puzzle: What in this picture is not like the others? My mother was a cool outlaw in a sea of same.
Behind me, my older sister spotted our mother and lowered her head. Our mother didn't look like the other mothers. Julie turned crimson with shame.
I’ve used this story for many years to illustrate that truth is complicated. To show that so much depends upon point of view.
Honesty is important to me. In The Climb from Salt Lick’s acknowledgments, I write, “This is a work of nonfiction. The truth. But it’s the truth as I remember it, and I understand that others may have their own versions of events.”
I hope those who read The Climb will let me know when they disagree with my point of view. Early readers have been generous and kind. (Thank you!) But I’m curious to know if there are other angles to my stories. Use the contact button on this web site. Tell your truth.