Honest to Goodness

Honest to Goodness

As the fifth child in a string of six, it was not easy to get the attention of my parents—well, not the kind I longed for anyway. I decided, at a very young age, I needed to be perfect in order to secure my parents' affection. How could they not admire me for qualities of honesty, respect, obedience, and good grades?

As it turned out, my efforts went unnoticed, as if all that perfection just came naturally.

What? No whistles sounded; no balloons launched? Not even a hint of praise uttered?

Years later, my mother enlightened me. "Too much bragging gives a person a big head."

No worries, Mom, you did your job well. Still, I stubbornly believed that, with enough determination, I would eventually garner the desired results.

One bright, sunny Saturday morning, Mama called me from the kitchen, her commanding voice giving no clue as to the reason.

Predictably, my brother, Bud, taunted me. "Well, little miss goody two-shoes, what did you do? You gotta be in trouble for Mama to call you to the kitchen." His mocking laughter trailed off as I hurried to obey.

Great! That was just what I needed—someone pointing out the likelihood that I was in hot water. I stood at arm's length, mentally reviewing all the possible reasons I merited this reprimand and bit my lip while I waited for Mama to finish her task. When she spotted me, her face turned serious. With difficulty, I resisted the urge to twist my hair around my finger, a nervous habit that irritated Mama to no end. She handed me a small scrap of paper and asked me if I was old enough to go to the grocery store alone. I took the slip of paper, wide eyes on the list as I tried to take it all in. This was my opportunity—I would finally show Mama just how helpful I could be.

I tingled with excitement as Dad drove me into town in our blue 1960 Chevrolet. I rode in the front seat—right in Mama's place. My legs dangled back and forth, and I struggled to keep my flip-flops attached to my feet. Though I compulsively checked and re-checked my pocket, the carefully folded assignment remained secure in its place. Dad didn't seem to notice the big smile on my face or the exuberance my body could not contain. He parked in front of the grocery store, and we stepped onto the sidewalk. As he moved in the direction of the drug store, he turned to me and instructed, "I'll be right down here. Meet me back at the car when you're finished."

I clutched the list in my hand as I entered the small store, barely noticing the other shoppers around me. I had a good recollection of what was on the three short aisles, so I grabbed a cart and started down the first aisle, eager to complete my mission. I inspected each package before placing it in the cart, making certain it matched the scribbled name on the paper.

As I neared the end of the aisle, I made a sharp turn to the right, averting my eyes from the glass covered case to my left. I cringed with each chopping sound that echoed from the butcher's corner and imagined the large, raw pieces of meat the butcher was working on. Guiding the cart toward the middle row of shelves, I glanced at the bags of feed and flour lying at the back of the building. I noticed the various flowered prints on them and grinned because I was no longer small enough for one of those sacks to become my next school dress.

Okay, Pat, pay attention to the task at hand. There's no time to dawdle.

Finally, I was down to one word on the list. To my absolute horror, I found two items, side-by-side, with very similar names but quite different purposes. One product was for making homemade jelly gel properly. The other one was for sealing the jars of jelly.

Which one did Mama mean? I stood there, perplexed. I couldn't buy both of them. What if there wasn't enough money, or what if my mother yelled at me for wasting money?

My ten-year-old mind was in a state of panic. I read the information on the two boxes over and over as if that would somehow provide a solution to my dilemma. My hands trembled as I studied the two boxes and the hastily written grocery list. I had to do something before my dad came looking for me. When he told me to meet him at the car, what he meant was, "You better be here when I get back." Of that, I was certain.

Forced to choose, I slung one into the cart and headed to the checkout. The ride home was miserable. Dizzy from all the uncertainties racing through my mind, my stomach ached, and my heart felt as if it would jump right out of my chest. I hugged the bag of groceries to me in an effort to keep my squirming to a minimum. Riding in the front seat had lost its enchantment. Tortured, I had only three short miles to figure out how I could conceal my failure. I couldn't disappoint my mother. She trusted me; she believed I was responsible.

Still churning ideas around in my head as we pulled into our dirt driveway, I settled on my plan. I carried the sack of groceries into the kitchen and casually remarked, "I'm sorry, Mama. They had everything on the list except this one." I pointed to that word on the list. "They were slap out of that. Uh . . . is that okay?"

"Humph," she grumbled. "Don't know how I'm supposed to make jelly without it."

I was surprised at how easily the lie had slipped from my tongue. My history of being truthful paid off, and my mother never questioned my explanation. With no time to waste, I deftly slid the small box out of the grocery bag and walked out into our backyard. There was no turning back now. I can't throw it in the garbage—she'll be sure to find it there. As I worried about being caught with it in my hands, I nervously ventured farther out of the yard and into the pasture. When I was sure no one could see me, I threw that stinking box as far as my little arm could throw it, hoping that no one would run across it and bring it home.

Though my flawless reputation was temporarily, and somewhat shakily, preserved, the possibility of someone, or something, lugging that stupid box back into my life stuck to me like a case of poison ivy I couldn't scratch. From atop a tree limb near the edge of my yard, I gazed at the pasture, wondering just where that awful thing had landed. Was it resting in a tuft of grass, partially concealed Or perhaps, it was out in plain sight, just pleading to be seen and carried home by a curious sibling. I halfway expected it to grow legs, climb the hill, and plant itself right beside our back doorstep. I could feel my mother's eyes watching me from the kitchen window. She seemed to always be there. What in the world could keep a person in the kitchen so much?

As autumn arrived, I could no longer live with the chance that my secret might be uncovered. I climbed over the pasture fence in search of that cardboard object of my torment. I soon discovered it, half-covered in dirt, faded from the weather, and barely recognizable. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, believing that I could finally put all this tangled mess behind me. I stomped it into the soil as I tried to bury the guilt I felt for my ill-begotten scheme. The whole disastrous course of events had started out so innocently as most lies do. My overly zealous need to please my parents clouded my judgment, and at that tender age, I couldn't even see the complete foolishness of my choices.

It was one thing to make top grades in school and always respect my elders in order to create the impression that I did no wrong. On the other hand, using lies and deceit to maintain that facade was altogether different, and my conscience would no longer allow me to handle life's inevitable mistakes and consequences in that manner. I eventually discovered that my parents were just as forgiving as they were firm. Though they expected us to set our targets high, their love for us was not measured by what we accomplished.

That desire to achieve perfection still haunts me, but I make it my goal to be honest in the things I say and do.


Pat Nelson
April 4, 2011
Word Count approximately 1509

A lie may temporarily take care of the present, but it has no future.
— Greg Hickman