“If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything.”
Mark Twain’s Notebook, 1894
A few years ago someone I know through collecting antiques said to me, “the good thing about telling the truth is that you don’t have to remember what you said”. Great words, don’t you think? At the time I didn’t realize that he was paraphrasing Mark Twain. He probably didn’t either. Unfortunately, the person borrowing Mr. Twain’s advice didn’t follow it.
We were together that Saturday because he had contacted me regarding a piece of Texas furniture he felt certain I would like. I made the drive 50 miles northwest of Houston to see a rare gem of a candle stand, supposedly “found” in Lee County, an area of the state known for some premier examples of 19th century furniture craftsmanship. I have to admit that upon first seeing the stand I gasped with pleasure. It was tall, folky and primitive, possessing perfect scale in dimensions, and even though it was painted with white porch enamel, the paint had been on the piece for a long time. Everything worked! The price was steep, $600, and my gut instinct told me that maybe this rare candle stand was a little too rare to be real. I had never seen another stand like this with a Texas provenance. I took the bait, and I took the candle stand home.
Anyone who knows me and my collecting also knows that I get pretty excited when I find anything that I think is wonderful, but especially excited when the piece is from Texas. Naturally, I shared my news with the few people who would have appreciated my find. My bubble was burst when on the following Tuesday I received a “thank you” note in the mail from—you know who—telling me that he had remembered his own finding experience relating to the candle stand a little differently. As it turned out, he had participated in a dealer sale in Lee County where dealers had brought merchandise gathered from various parts of the U. S. The bottom line, he couldn’t really attribute the stand to Texas. From Saturday afternoon until Tuesday…hmmm…I wonder when he wrote the card. Had the ink dried by the time I made it back to Houston? So much for the truth making life easier.
I don’t recall how much time passed before I had the courage to answer my one burning question about the candle stand. Most likely it was only a couple of months. The truth lay within easy reach. Under the lid of the stand, a piece of heavy paper was folded and lodged between the lid and the cleat that joined the pedestal to the lid. The cleat had been morticed into the lid, and over time shrinkage had caused the lid to become loose. The folded paper had been placed there many years ago in an effort to tighten up the lid, probably at the time the original blue paint was painted over.
A collector and friend visiting me in Houston announced on Saturday morning while we were having coffee, he still in his bathrobe, “let’s settle this”. So with candle stand in hand we headed to the garage for the paint remover. First, though, I dug the folded paper out of its paint-secured place, and on opening it found that it was a post card. Both sender and receiver were residents of Pennsylvania. It all made sense. Folky, graceful stand, lid morticed to the pedestal, square nails used in attaching the legs to the pedestal. Yes, too good to be true concerning the Texas provenance, but no stretch at all for it to be a wonderful, and perhaps rare, early, artful stand from Pennsylvania. The rest of the story concerning the candle stand isn’t really important. We removed the white paint, took the stand back into the house, where I had decided to enjoy it for its truth.
I kept the stand for a few years and sold it for a little profit to someone who wanted it because of its provenance. I told her the entire story. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about this episode in truth telling. From the arrival of the “thank you” note through today, I have smiled a little while sighing with regret that any of us needs to mess with the truth. We all do it, I assume to gain ground or accomplish some end that somehow seems important, even necessary at the time. Working over the truth isn’t limited to straight-out lying, however. It happens any time we reshape reality to suit our own needs—lying, fibbing, exaggerating, telling stuff at someone else’s expense, regardless of the truth. Perhaps the greatest irony in this pathetic tale is the guy who brought me to the candle stand. He claims to be “born again”. “Born into what,” I ask. Recently I discovered that a secondary definition for “impeccable” is “free from sin: so perfect in character as to be incapable of sinning”. Something else I read recently offers as a life guideline that we “be impeccable” with our word, that we use the power of our words in love and truth. I don’t see any perfection in my own future, but I sure like being reminded that truth-telling is a big, old energy boost to my memory.
The Good Thing About Telling the Truth—Santa Fe, New Mexico (October 17, 2007)
R. Harold Hollis
Mark Twain’s Notebook, 1894
A few years ago someone I know through collecting antiques said to me, “the good thing about telling the truth is that you don’t have to remember what you said”. Great words, don’t you think? At the time I didn’t realize that he was paraphrasing Mark Twain. He probably didn’t either. Unfortunately, the person borrowing Mr. Twain’s advice didn’t follow it.
We were together that Saturday because he had contacted me regarding a piece of Texas furniture he felt certain I would like. I made the drive 50 miles northwest of Houston to see a rare gem of a candle stand, supposedly “found” in Lee County, an area of the state known for some premier examples of 19th century furniture craftsmanship. I have to admit that upon first seeing the stand I gasped with pleasure. It was tall, folky and primitive, possessing perfect scale in dimensions, and even though it was painted with white porch enamel, the paint had been on the piece for a long time. Everything worked! The price was steep, $600, and my gut instinct told me that maybe this rare candle stand was a little too rare to be real. I had never seen another stand like this with a Texas provenance. I took the bait, and I took the candle stand home.
Anyone who knows me and my collecting also knows that I get pretty excited when I find anything that I think is wonderful, but especially excited when the piece is from Texas. Naturally, I shared my news with the few people who would have appreciated my find. My bubble was burst when on the following Tuesday I received a “thank you” note in the mail from—you know who—telling me that he had remembered his own finding experience relating to the candle stand a little differently. As it turned out, he had participated in a dealer sale in Lee County where dealers had brought merchandise gathered from various parts of the U. S. The bottom line, he couldn’t really attribute the stand to Texas. From Saturday afternoon until Tuesday…hmmm…I wonder when he wrote the card. Had the ink dried by the time I made it back to Houston? So much for the truth making life easier.
I don’t recall how much time passed before I had the courage to answer my one burning question about the candle stand. Most likely it was only a couple of months. The truth lay within easy reach. Under the lid of the stand, a piece of heavy paper was folded and lodged between the lid and the cleat that joined the pedestal to the lid. The cleat had been morticed into the lid, and over time shrinkage had caused the lid to become loose. The folded paper had been placed there many years ago in an effort to tighten up the lid, probably at the time the original blue paint was painted over.
A collector and friend visiting me in Houston announced on Saturday morning while we were having coffee, he still in his bathrobe, “let’s settle this”. So with candle stand in hand we headed to the garage for the paint remover. First, though, I dug the folded paper out of its paint-secured place, and on opening it found that it was a post card. Both sender and receiver were residents of Pennsylvania. It all made sense. Folky, graceful stand, lid morticed to the pedestal, square nails used in attaching the legs to the pedestal. Yes, too good to be true concerning the Texas provenance, but no stretch at all for it to be a wonderful, and perhaps rare, early, artful stand from Pennsylvania. The rest of the story concerning the candle stand isn’t really important. We removed the white paint, took the stand back into the house, where I had decided to enjoy it for its truth.
I kept the stand for a few years and sold it for a little profit to someone who wanted it because of its provenance. I told her the entire story. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about this episode in truth telling. From the arrival of the “thank you” note through today, I have smiled a little while sighing with regret that any of us needs to mess with the truth. We all do it, I assume to gain ground or accomplish some end that somehow seems important, even necessary at the time. Working over the truth isn’t limited to straight-out lying, however. It happens any time we reshape reality to suit our own needs—lying, fibbing, exaggerating, telling stuff at someone else’s expense, regardless of the truth. Perhaps the greatest irony in this pathetic tale is the guy who brought me to the candle stand. He claims to be “born again”. “Born into what,” I ask. Recently I discovered that a secondary definition for “impeccable” is “free from sin: so perfect in character as to be incapable of sinning”. Something else I read recently offers as a life guideline that we “be impeccable” with our word, that we use the power of our words in love and truth. I don’t see any perfection in my own future, but I sure like being reminded that truth-telling is a big, old energy boost to my memory.
The Good Thing About Telling the Truth—Santa Fe, New Mexico (October 17, 2007)
R. Harold Hollis
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