The Ballad of Weaver Dial
Many families have mottoes: "obey God, serve humanity, resist tyranny" -- that's a good one, but it isn't ours. "God will guard the prudent man" -- that's another, and we don't own that one, either. We've got several, though: "We survived the Irish famine, and by God, we'll never go hungry again" is one of them, along with its corollary, "And after that we built the railroad in between Galveston and Tenaha and we'd like to sit on our butts for a while. Pass the Doritos."
But the main ruling motto of my family's life is "Make sure the story's good." To that end, we don't actually LIE. Nor do we really exaggerate. We just sorta embellish things.
I've seen this in action, when one of the family members was telling a story -- in this case it was about how this person had actually managed to drive a pickup truck out of The Bottom, which is the spot of land in East Texas wherein my family drives cars by mistake and loses them -- they sink right in. I figure if we want to sell the mineral rights to that tract we should do Real Well. And while this story was going on -- and it was a good one, too -- another family member got all excited by it and started adding to it, all about how he had seen this pickup truck being driven out, with various pieces of expensive farm equipment dragging off it, getting ruined, and that's what happened to the expensive farm equipment...I gather this had been a point of contention.
"You didn't see that! You didn't see any such thing!" "I did too! I was driving right behind, and there you were, dragging stuff all over the highway. Pieces flying off right and left." "No, you did not!" "Yes, I did! I was there!" "No, you weren't! You were in HOUSTON!"
No argument from the interrupter; I gather he indeed wasn't there, didn't see it, was in Houston. But he wasn't lying. That's the deal. For the space of telling the story, it was true.
This trait, especially since it's shared by so many of us (do I include myself? You betcha.), makes it Difficult To Discern Reality, if indeed there is such a thing. It makes all our stories a bit...flexible.
My favorite example is the story of The Death of Weaver Dial, who would be my -- oh, let's see -- my first cousin twice removed. Oh, what a happy day it was when the Brannens married the Outlaw Dials! While we were back in Alabama, we were very well behaved citizens. Primitive Baptists, we were, and we didn't drink or smoke or gamble or go dancing or shoot people up whilst having temper fits. Then we went to Texas and met the Dials, who had moved there -- or escaped there, to be precise -- after having shot up a school board meeting in Louisiana. (That'd be the Rawhide Fight, Sabine Parish, 1851.) We're grateful to all our Dial ancestors and cousins, cause they've given us so much story material over the years -- way more than we were accumulating while behaving ourselves in Alabama.
Anyway, all of us have been told about The Death of Weaver Dial. Lots. But as it turns out, we've been told different things. So one year, we all got together and tried to collate stories, so as to finally decide, once and for all, on a version.
Various details we collected: Weaver Dial was the handsomest boy in Trinity County. He was engaged to the loveliest girl in said county. She was the sister of the woman who would years later become my grandfather's second wife. No, she wasn't. Actually, he wasn't engaged at all. Anyway. One day, he was walking down the street in Trinity and some guy came up outa nowhere and shot him in the chest. No, it was Groveton. Well, anyway, he shot him in the chest, but Weaver Dial kept on comin'. He kept on comin' and that ol' boy kept shootin', till finally Weaver Dial fell down daid. No, he didn't. Weaver Dial was a terrible terrible bully, and the guy that shot him shot him in the back and everybody cheered and helped him get on the train and escape.
Ok. Well. As you can see, this is hard to collate.
Our final, definitive version (We all agreed on this! I was there! I don't wanna see no variations in the comment section!): Weaver Dial had been bullying some guy for months, on account of this guy stole Weaver Dial's Christmas whiskey, and Weaver Dial was giving him so much grief, and that ol' boy was so scared of Weaver Dial, he shot him down daid in the streets of Trinity. (I believe that the part about everybody helping the shooter get on the train was agreed to as an optional embellishment.)
I'm glad we agreed on a place, though I don't remember how we decided it. I think, really, that it was on account of it's more fun to say "Trinity, Texas," than "Groveton, Texas." In the construction of narrative, this is important. And the Christmas whiskey? I have NO idea where that came from, but damn, it's good. Yes. Keepin' that.
All of this is by way of explaining why my brother Carl would take it into his head to report, in my comment section for the last entry, that once I ran into a fire hydrant and water went everywhere. Even though this never happened, I don't believe he's lying. It's a good story, and therefore it's true. That's the point. I especially like the detail about the water going everywhere. If indeed I never drove into a fire hydrant -- which I didn't -- then water never went everywhere -- which, again, it didn't. But damn, it's a good detail. You hate to lose it. In fact, I may start believing this story myself, just so I can keep that detail.
I'm pretty sure this is how Weaver Dial lost his Christmas whiskey.
But the main ruling motto of my family's life is "Make sure the story's good." To that end, we don't actually LIE. Nor do we really exaggerate. We just sorta embellish things.
I've seen this in action, when one of the family members was telling a story -- in this case it was about how this person had actually managed to drive a pickup truck out of The Bottom, which is the spot of land in East Texas wherein my family drives cars by mistake and loses them -- they sink right in. I figure if we want to sell the mineral rights to that tract we should do Real Well. And while this story was going on -- and it was a good one, too -- another family member got all excited by it and started adding to it, all about how he had seen this pickup truck being driven out, with various pieces of expensive farm equipment dragging off it, getting ruined, and that's what happened to the expensive farm equipment...I gather this had been a point of contention.
"You didn't see that! You didn't see any such thing!" "I did too! I was driving right behind, and there you were, dragging stuff all over the highway. Pieces flying off right and left." "No, you did not!" "Yes, I did! I was there!" "No, you weren't! You were in HOUSTON!"
No argument from the interrupter; I gather he indeed wasn't there, didn't see it, was in Houston. But he wasn't lying. That's the deal. For the space of telling the story, it was true.
This trait, especially since it's shared by so many of us (do I include myself? You betcha.), makes it Difficult To Discern Reality, if indeed there is such a thing. It makes all our stories a bit...flexible.
My favorite example is the story of The Death of Weaver Dial, who would be my -- oh, let's see -- my first cousin twice removed. Oh, what a happy day it was when the Brannens married the Outlaw Dials! While we were back in Alabama, we were very well behaved citizens. Primitive Baptists, we were, and we didn't drink or smoke or gamble or go dancing or shoot people up whilst having temper fits. Then we went to Texas and met the Dials, who had moved there -- or escaped there, to be precise -- after having shot up a school board meeting in Louisiana. (That'd be the Rawhide Fight, Sabine Parish, 1851.) We're grateful to all our Dial ancestors and cousins, cause they've given us so much story material over the years -- way more than we were accumulating while behaving ourselves in Alabama.
Anyway, all of us have been told about The Death of Weaver Dial. Lots. But as it turns out, we've been told different things. So one year, we all got together and tried to collate stories, so as to finally decide, once and for all, on a version.
Various details we collected: Weaver Dial was the handsomest boy in Trinity County. He was engaged to the loveliest girl in said county. She was the sister of the woman who would years later become my grandfather's second wife. No, she wasn't. Actually, he wasn't engaged at all. Anyway. One day, he was walking down the street in Trinity and some guy came up outa nowhere and shot him in the chest. No, it was Groveton. Well, anyway, he shot him in the chest, but Weaver Dial kept on comin'. He kept on comin' and that ol' boy kept shootin', till finally Weaver Dial fell down daid. No, he didn't. Weaver Dial was a terrible terrible bully, and the guy that shot him shot him in the back and everybody cheered and helped him get on the train and escape.
Ok. Well. As you can see, this is hard to collate.
Our final, definitive version (We all agreed on this! I was there! I don't wanna see no variations in the comment section!): Weaver Dial had been bullying some guy for months, on account of this guy stole Weaver Dial's Christmas whiskey, and Weaver Dial was giving him so much grief, and that ol' boy was so scared of Weaver Dial, he shot him down daid in the streets of Trinity. (I believe that the part about everybody helping the shooter get on the train was agreed to as an optional embellishment.)
I'm glad we agreed on a place, though I don't remember how we decided it. I think, really, that it was on account of it's more fun to say "Trinity, Texas," than "Groveton, Texas." In the construction of narrative, this is important. And the Christmas whiskey? I have NO idea where that came from, but damn, it's good. Yes. Keepin' that.
All of this is by way of explaining why my brother Carl would take it into his head to report, in my comment section for the last entry, that once I ran into a fire hydrant and water went everywhere. Even though this never happened, I don't believe he's lying. It's a good story, and therefore it's true. That's the point. I especially like the detail about the water going everywhere. If indeed I never drove into a fire hydrant -- which I didn't -- then water never went everywhere -- which, again, it didn't. But damn, it's a good detail. You hate to lose it. In fact, I may start believing this story myself, just so I can keep that detail.
I'm pretty sure this is how Weaver Dial lost his Christmas whiskey.
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