&uot;I don’t mind lying, but I hate inaccuracy.

Thursday, December 13, 2001

&uot;I don’t mind lying, but I hate inaccuracy.&uot;

-Samuel Butler, Note-Books, 1912

The date of my retirement from The Albert Lea Tribune was Feb. 1, 1982. 1 had four weeks vacation coming, though, so I actually retired Dec. 31, 1981. The last feature story I did was on the pastor of the Pickerel Lake Lutheran Church and his family. They had a gift for celebrating Christmas and I wanted a Christmas story.

The roads were a glare of ice. My small car slid sideways all the way to the parsonage and I had the uneasy feeling I might not survive long enough to enjoy my retirement. The weather didn’t improve either. The Tribune had a farewell open house for me and a blizzard kept all but the hardiest away. Although I still have a collection of beautiful letters and cards from such as couldn’t make it.

The Tribune had been my home away from home for so many years, that I had a good many misgivings about taking my leave from it. My last thoughts, though, as I remember were of offering up a small prayer of thanksgiving that I’d never caused the paper to be sued for libel.

The one time such a threat was made I was innocent as a newborn lamb. Back then weddings of length had two-column headlines. Short weddings simply had the word &uot;Married&uot; in bold face caps over them. You didn’t send out a headline. You simply headed the copy paper &uot;stet&uot; and figured it would turn out all right. That’s what I scribbled on the page I sent out about the happy couple from Kiester.

Mid-morning the make-up man from the back shop swept in, frothing at the mouth, to inform me that I’d sent no headline out for the Mother’s Club meeting at the Kiester elementary school. I was inclined to argue. I always had a list of stories for the next edition, complete with headlines and length of story. It was quicker, though, to write another headline.

When the newspaper hit the street I saw with horror what had happened. Instead of putting &uot;Married&uot; over the Kiester couple’s wedding, someone had put the missing headline over it: &uot;Fun Night in Kiester.&uot;

That couple was rich in relatives. For the next two days I met most of them. Of course, we ran the story over, and I apologized profusely. In the meantime thinking of convenient methods of homicide by which to dispose of my friend in the back shop who had set me up for this.

There is no one I admire more than the accurate among us. Even the most accurate among us have their weaknesses, though. I once had a friend who kicked a parking meter post and used most fearful language because it didn’t register, when he’d actually put his money into the parking meter next to it.

Even my mother, bless her, a woman whose check book always balanced to the penny, was a little careless about songs. She had a great deal of musical talent and a happy tendency to sing about the house. But sometimes the words she was singing made no sense.

Being a somewhat priggish little monster this somewhat upset me. For instance one day she was singing &uot;The Cowboy’s Lament.&uot; You know the line &uot;Beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,&uot;? Well, when my mother sang it, it came out, &uot;Beat the drum slowly and play the fifefolie.&uot; For a long time I accepted the possibility that there was an instrument called fifefolie. Then my curiosity got the better of me.

&uot;What’s a fifefolie?&uot; I asked.

&uot;Do you want to hear this song?&uot; my mother asked, &uot;Or do you want to ask stupid questions?&uot;

It shut me up. At least it shut me up until the next time. The next time wasn’t long in coming. To understand the problem you have to understand that my maternal grandmother’s family came originally from Virginia, while my maternal grandfather’s family came originally from Vermont. It gave them a somewhat different outlook on things.

No doubt it was confusing for their children. Still it seemed to me when I heard my mother singing, &uot;We’ll hang John Brown’s body on a sour apple tree, his soul goes marching on,&uot; it was a bit much.

&uot;You can’t have it both ways,&uot; I protested. &uot;You’ve got the southern and the northern versions mixed up. This time she was not outraged. A conscientious student, herself, it pleased her that I was interested in history.

She hesitated and then made a valiant attempt, &uot;We’ll hang John Brown’s body on a sour apple tree,&uot; she sang, &uot;His damned soul goes marching on.&uot;

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.