Mama Made Me Lie

She called it little white lies, being polite, and taking responsibility. I called it spoiling Christmas. If I didn’t write a thank-you note to everyone who mailed me a gift by New Year’s Day, I would practically be chained to the kitchen table until I’d finished. “No fair! My cousins don’t write you notes!” I’d point out. (You’ve probably guessed: I never won an argument with Mama.)

I don’t even remember if my brother wrote any notes. Maybe he was old enough he’d outgrown the protests or maybe it was just my problem as a future young lady. Yuck!

I knew it was polite to thank someone for a gift. I did it all the time in person. The real problem was trying to fill a note page with untruths. Some of those gifts were horrible.

As I got older, the task should have been easier, except that the gifts kept getting worse, too.

Clearly Aunt Flora, not a real aunt, but Mama’s childhood friend, either knew nothing about children or thought Geoff and I were about five years younger than we were. A Bobbsey Twins book when I was 13? Really? I’d already given up Nancy Drew for Jane Eyre and short stories by Poe. 

“Thank you for the gift” was never enough to suit Mama. I had to name the gift and find some reason to say I liked it. Although she sympathized about the Bobbsey Twins, I still had to write a note. At least by then I’d learned to fill the page with friendly chatter rather than piling on more lies. Perhaps I was clever enough to say, “You know how much I love books!”

Mama was a wise woman. The first time I had dinner with my future in-laws, I wrote Mrs. P a thank you, and she was impressed. 

Now I’d like to say,

Dear Mama,

Thank you for making me write thank-you notes. They weren’t white lies. They were fiction – good training ground for a poet. Now I have poetic license to lie, and I understand that, when I plead writer’s block, it’s really procrastination.

Love always.