Writers, ever wonder why you became a writer? What initial spark lit the flame of artistic pursuit? For me, that spark was supplied, at least in part, by the tall tales my father told me as a child. He was Irish and had the gift of gab as well as a serious touch of the ol' Blarney Stone deep in his DNA.
For years I was mislead by his tales with unforeseen consequences later in life when I finally learned the truth about whatever spin he'd put on the fabrication. Case in point. I spent a good portion of my childhood under the mistaken belief that Lake Tahoe and was "the longest lake in the world."
Yeah, I was seriously compromised in terms of geography, thanks to my father. Returning home from a family trip to Reno, I had a desire (albeit understandable) to see Lake Tahoe. He had an equally strong desire (albeit not so understandable) to return home with all the doggedness of a rabid homing pigeon. I begged him to make the turn. I cajoled. I pouted. I may have even cried.
My mother logically argued for my side. After all, it was just a simple detour which would add no more than an hour to our return to destination. Finally, tired of this two-front war, and much amused by his own cleverness, he pointed at the tiny stream running alongside the highway and announced, "that's Lake Tahoe."
It was, in fact, the Truckee River.
Seriously. Thing was, my dad could sell ice to the Eskimos because I bought it, hook, line, & sinker. Or shall I say, sucker.
"That's Lake Tahoe. It's the longest lake in the world." Of course, I believed him as I stared in wonder at the (very long indeed) body of water racing (or trickling) along the roadside. And I thought, for a seriously embarrassing number of years, that the Truckee River was Lake Tahoe.
The longest lake in the world.
Don't get me started on tigers eating babies with bottles (I was three) or how the Irish Potato Famine was when the Irish had nothing to eat BUT potatoes.
