The art of misspeak

There once was a time when a lie was a lie. That time is no longer. When I was a boy, somehow the line between truth and outright lies has been blurred. Seemingly, nowhere is that line less defined than in the political arena of today. Caution: you have entered the world of misspeak.

When a person is accused of wrong-doing, they can claim innocence. If the person gets caught, they continue to profess innocence. Finally after a prolonged investigation, there is an admission that perhaps the person misspoke.

I got news for you — that’s not misspeaking. Back-in-the-day, my parents called that lying. And it was usually followed by one heck of a butt-whooping.

I was on the receiving end of a butt load of whippings growing up — pun intended. My folks never attributed to one of my whippings to me misspeaking about anything. All were because I flat-out lied. Either I did something and lied about it or one of my brothers did something and they lied and said I did it. Either way, the whooping part always followed the lying part.

The Wife says words have power. Just look at the people making a run for our nation’s highest office. They sure do say some fancy, powerful words. This week it seems some of those politicians might have misspoken pertaining to past events.

My parents would have explained that those misspoken words were simply lies and start looking for someone to whoop. I don’t imagine my dad is headed to the campaign trail to mete out the punishment, but it’s fun to think about.

I admit, like most, I stretched the truth somewhat as a youth. If you ask my three brothers, they would say I lied more than all of them put together. That wasn’t really true. I just got caught more.

Whenever Dad thought one of us was lying, he’d line us up according to our age and start asking questions. I was always down at the end of the line so when Dad got to me all the good lies were already used. My thinly veiled lies were easy to see through.

One place I tried not telling a fib was in school. That’s no lie. Old Mrs. Crabtree didn’t tolerate liars. If caught, you had to stay after school and beat her chalkboard erasers.

That’s why there was always a white dust cloud that rose up behind Mt. Olive Elementary about 3:10 every afternoon. It was usually one of us Ryckeley boys beating her erasers. Lying was such a hard habit to break back then.

The lying gene must be inherited, because I’ve caught The Boy in some real whoppers over the years. Before he turned 10, it only took six or seven lies to make him an honest kid. He learned a lot quicker than me. I got whooped so much growing up, I lost count. And that’s no lie.

If I lie at work, I’ll get fired. If The Wife lies at work, she gets fired. Seems like if a politician lies, they call it misspeaking, and then they might end up as our president.

Doesn’t seem quite fair, but then again no one said life was fair. If they did, they would be a liar.

Growing up, Dad told us anyone caught lying would be held accountable for their words. Guess he misspoke.

Looks like it’s time for me to go to Florida for another visit. Even though he just turned 80, looks like Dad’s got a butt whooping coming — if I can catch him.