“Truth is as straight as an arrow, while a lie swivels like a snake.”
Today turned out to be a pretty day. It was sunny and warm, too warm for this time of year, but I’m complaining. I love sweatshirt weather in January.
When I was a kid, my mother had a great way to find out the truth. If something was found broken and no one admitted to it, my mother asked the four of us who did it. We all said we didn’t know. She didn’t believe us. She knew one of us was guilty. She told us when we lie our tongues turned black then she’d ask us to show her our tongues. The guilty party always gave himself away by refusing to show his tongue. Running to the mirror to check didn’t help. She told us only mothers could see the black tongue. We believed her. We were young.
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. I didn’t know if that was true or not. It sort of sounded silly to me, but I didn’t want to take chances. I jumped over every crack. When I walked the railroad tracks, I jumped over every wooden tie with double zeros in the middle for the same reason. I did not want to be responsible for my mother’s broken back.
When I was in grammar school, if some other kid called me a name, I’d give the standard comeback: I know you are but what am I. There was really nowhere to go from there so it ended the name calling. Another, a more sophisticated comeback, was I’m rubber; you’re glue; whatever you say bounces off me and sticks on you. It didn’t have a comeback either.
The women’s marches were extraordinary. I watched them on MSNBC for a good part of the day. I also saw Trump’s speech at C.I.A. headquarters and Sean Spicer’s denunciation of the press in the filled press room at the White House. Words fail me. I’m angry and I’m sad.