By Parnell Thill
Notes from the Small Pond
Liar's blues
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1972. My dad catching me by the ankle as I desperately scramble up the stairs in a vain attempt to escape the well-deserved spanking I was about to endure, him fresh home from a double shift in the stock room at Northwest Paper Company, having learned in the car ride home from the mill, from my mother, about how I’d lied about spilling a gallon of paint on the living room floor while using it as a step stool to get at the piggy bank my sister had hidden behind the ceramic elf on the mantle.
“This is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me,” my dad lied.
“It wasn’t me...
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