The Liar

"Why do people lie, grandpa?" My eldest grandson looks at me, his earnest face a mixture of curiosity and concern.

It's difficult to hold his gaze without my eyes getting a little wet. I owe him the truth, even at the tender age of seven. So many others have lied to him and let him down. I hope this isn't the only place in his life where he hears the truth.

Looking at him kindly, I say "That's a hard thing to answer. You see, people lie for a lot of reasons. Sometimes to avoid embarrassment, at others to get something they want. Sometimes it just easier to lie."

Looking at me intently, he rubs his nose. "I just wish they wouldn't, that's all."

I give him a grin and tousle his hair. "Me too," I reply.

But I don't tell him about the worst kind of lie. Maybe I will someday when he is old enough to reflect back on his young life and begin to apply what he has learned.

In the meantime, we go outside and bounce on the trampoline while the sun still rides above the horizon.

After he goes to bed, I lay with my eyes open wide, staring into the sleepless darkness.

Why do people lie to themselves? My mother raised us to tell the truth. She hated lying, or at least thought she did.

When we were children, truth was sacrosanct in our home. But our parents passed onto us myths and lies about themselves just as their parents had once passed the same onto them. Unfortunately, we did not realize the truth soon enough to avoid passing them to our own.

Raised in the era when a 'good man' provided for his family and was given a pass for being an absentee husband and father, I truly believed I was a 'good man.' When my wife complained, I told her she was not being fair. When our children rebelled and treated me like a stranger and interloper in their lives, I believed their actions were unjustified and disrespectful.

But one day I looked in the mirror and saw my father staring back at me. Another 'good man.'

I did not respect him when I was growing up either.

I am old enough now to have seen my grandfather's face as I gaze in horror at my reflection in the mirror.

We were all liars. We lied to ourselves. We lied to our spouses. We lied to our children. I did not mean too. But when you lie to yourself, you lie to everyone else as well.

Since my dad died, my mom has often reminded me that my father was a 'good man.' That's right. Those are the words she uses. But I remember a different story.

I remember when he broke her heart.

The image of her on hands and knees washing the floor with her tears still forms in my mind's eye even though sixty-five years have passed since the witnessing. How many times did I plead with her, 'What's the matter mommy?' But she never turned, never answered. She continued weeping as she slowly scrubbed the floor.

That is my earliest memory.

To this day I do not know what happened. But after that, a cloud hung over our family without explanation or expiation. I still remember my younger brother clinging to her leg as she worked in the kitchen, trying without success to wring a little affection from her.

I really don't know how my siblings coped. But as I entered adulthood, I was as cold as a stone.

During the celebration of our parents fiftieth wedding anniversary, when my mother spoke, she inadvertently shed a tiny light on what had happened forty-seven years before.

Standing at the podium when it was her turn to speak, she said, 'I knew the first three years of our marriage that it was the best decision I ever made....'

I still don't know what happened and don't expect I ever will. But each year, she more strongly defends our father than the year before, and I can't help but wonder if that is what people do when someone close to them dies. Has she forgotten who triggered all the many years of her misery?

A couple weeks ago, she started with "your father was a 'good man'" speech again but this time she got angry and told me 'How lucky I was that he was my dad and that I should appreciate him more.' It would have been easy to lie and agree with her, but I was speechless with shock.

In death, my father has become the man our mother always wanted him to be.

I'm not a fool. I know I'm lucky in many respects and quite frankly my dad was no worse a father than I was. The only saving grace is the second chance to get it right with my grandsons.

Avoiding lying to myself and others is easier now. I'm old, invisible, and glad of it. I'm so tired after decades of trying to impress others. It someone else's time now.

I simply hope that when my grandsons are old enough to understand, I can tell them the truth about why we all lie to ourselves. And I hope with all my heart that both my grandsons become honorable and loving men.