But I Remain Standing…
A Memoir
by Dave Martin
FOREWARD
When I first set out to write the story of my life, I wasn't quite sure where to begin. Perhaps with my birth; but no. To start there might imply the tale would finish where my life ends. That has yet to happen. Of course now I hope I won't regret writing that…
As a writer and a poet, I have a license to embellish. The freedom to tell a story as I see fit, to bend or twist the truth without breaking it. And as a native-born Texan, I am required by state law to always tell a tall tale – a Texas tradition, as it were. Texans do not invent truth, we simply overlook or ignore facts in favor of a show of bold color. Spice it up, turn it into something worth listenin’ to.
There I go, garnishing reality already. There is no such law. Perhaps it’s something in the water that drives Texans to go beyond embellishment to blatant lies. Sorry; untruths. We never actually lie. Honest.
But, truth be told, it does make for a wonderful story, does it not? We Texans can make even the most fantastically ridiculous event seem like an everyday occurrence. Remember the Jackalope? And, perhaps therein lies the real truth. You believe what you wish to believe. Ay, there's the rub. You, the reader, beg for the fantasy in an all too real world. A singing frog is more entertaining that one who simply croaks. Now wouldn’t you agree?
As desperately as you wish to brush off a such a tale as rubbish, you can get drawn into the yarn until, ensnared by the brashness of the storyteller, you hope it never ends. Truth be damned!
However, this narrative is about my life. It’s not a fable or fairy tale - well, so to speak. Perhaps it is a bit of the latter. But, more on that as my epic progresses.
I cannot make a Texas-sized saga of it. We may stretch the truth beyond believability, but when it comes right down to it, honesty and integrity must prevail. For you see, that too dwells in the heart of a true Texan. Just more proof that George W. Bush ain’t a Texan at all!
This does not mean that I will not make justifiable use of my freedom to embellish. As a man of Italian descent, I am well aware that the seasonings make the dish more appealing, and thus memorable. The harsh truths more palatable. The aroma masking the odors of the past, perfuming the elephant dung. And that’s no bullshit, either.
Which is good, since as we age, our memories sometimes confuse us. Our brains can hold far more than we could ever hope to draw upon, and it often manages to hide from us the things it believes would only bring us pain. Or it fills in blanks with how we wished our lives have been, to the point we convince ourselves that the make believe really happened.
But none of this postulation and philosophizing aids in answering the question: where to begin.
The answer was oddly found in one my earliest poetic works. My second poem, to be precise, written during my senior year of high school. It not only provided me with the title for this monumental endeavor, but a starting place. It gave me the opportunity to reflect on the words I had written over twenty-five years ago, and be amazed at how clearly they described and defined my life before I had even lived it.
And so it begins, somewhere in the middle…
But I Remain Standing…
At once, I see myself,
Standing among a crowd of people.
And though it is but Summer,
The crowed dwindles, but I remain standing.
And when Death stands before me,
I walk around him,
For it is not me that he has come for.
As the Autumn leaves fall,
The crowd grows smaller,
And Death is once again before me.
Yet now I laugh, for he is not to take me yet.
But now, the snows of Winter fall,
And I am alone.
Once more, Death faces me,
Though now I say nothing, do nothing.
I then see myself,
Standing among a crowd of people.
And though the Spring sun shines,
The crowd dwindles,
But I remain standing…
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