Goerwitz

By Sam Goodwin

As I learned to understand and use the English language (as spoken in Maine) I also learned not to mis-use it. I learned that it is very wrong to tell a "LIE." After all, the same words "honest" and "dishonest" were used in relation to lying and in relation to stealing money or property. Besides, to tell a LIE was to stick a wrench into the gears of the Orderly Universe. The only exception was "tall tales," lies so outrageous that no one could possibly believe them. I was also very dependent on my mother and concious of that fact. I was emotionly attached to her. In my selfish, little boy way I loved her.

Still at a very early age I learned to make an exception to my self-imposed rule of absolute verbal honesty and to LIE to the Most Important Person in the World.

We lived in Maine, and winters in Maine are a serious matter. In November every pool or puddle and the very ground freeze as hard as granite. Around December 1st the snow comes to stay. In spite of occasional thaws and rains that melt some of it, it keeps getting deeper until about the First of March. Then the snow, the frozen brooks and ponds all turn to water again, and the frozen ground under them turns to mud. March and April are the time of melting and drying out. Around May 1st we see a proliferation of green grass, wildflowers and all the other things that the rest of the world associates with spring.

Throughout the long season of Fall-Winter-Spring, My Mother had good reason to be concerned that her little boy was warm enough whenever he went outdoors. She would bundle me up, guide me out the door, pause to contemplate the World of Whiteness, and say "Are you warm enough?"

"I'm hot," I would answer—puzzled, annoyed, and a little bit terrified by the heavy and confining burden of sweaters, coats, scarves, boots and leggings that she had wrapped me up in.

I would venture forth into the snowdrifts, pick up snow, taste it, throw it, roll in it and do a number of other little boy things.

Shortly My Mother would appear at the door to say, "Are you warm enough?"

By now I was quite comfortable but terrified at the possibility that she might find some way to get more clothing onto my frail, little body. "I’m hot," I assured her.

From then on, whenever My Mother asked me if I was warm enough, no matter what the circumstances, my answer was prompt, prepared, silently rehearsed, automatic and completely independent of the truth. "I'm hot."

Naturally My Mother soon figured out the answer was automatic and meaningless and continued to rely on her own judgment, which was probably improved by the experience. But the damage was done. My perfect loyalty to the truth was no longer perfect. I had made my first moral compromise.