Not a Timber Wolf. . . It was a Fox. Sigh

Papaw Earl was hard to beat. He would appear broke in Monopoly and my hopes would rise and from somewhere the money would appear. I never won. Once I played more than thirteen games of checkers with him to beat him once when he grew distracted. I would like to tell you I was ashamed, but I was not.

Since he never lied, when he told me a story about a visit to a grave yard, I believed him. He said that once he went to see a grave and bent over. There was a chill wind as he said: “What are you doing down there.” And he told me he heard . . . and his voice still sends shivers down my spine. . . “nothing at all.”

He swore it was true and I was gobsmacked. What in the world? Most important, he said that it worked for everyone in our family. You had to ask the right question . . . but the answer would always be the same. I will not tell you how old I was when I figured this out, because it makes me blush still.

He laughed cheerfully.

But our longest argument was about a sign in front of a Charleston lumber yard. I was convinced that, given that it was a lumber yard, this must be a timber wolf. It could have been. Papaw told me that given the shape of the ears meant that it was a fox. We argued for years. I pointed out (quite rightly I think) that a fox was a horrible symbol for a company. Were they going to cheat us? Papaw said that a wolf was not much better.

The debate went on. . .

And yet I was wrong and now know I was wrong, because at some point he sent me an ad from the Charleston paper suggesting we buy our home goods at the “sign of the friendly fox.”

Sigh.

I was wrong.

I was thinking of this today, because Dad asked me about it yesterday and I realized that my position had always been shoddy. The coloring of the sign was “fox-like” not timber-wolf like. The ears always were a point in Papaw’s favor. My only real argument was my odd belief that people who sold timber would pick a timber wolf. This is not a compelling argument.

Why didn’t I give up? Partly, I persisted because it became fun to argue! Partly I persisted for the same reason many of us do when we are wrong: we do not like being wrong. I could always explain away the argument and after all . . . maybe. Eventually the newspaper settled it . . .though if I had been stubborn I could have explained that away as well. After all, by this time we were a generation from the founding of the lumber yard. Perhaps, the heirs had forgotten or they were playing loose with the facts in order to develop a catchy slogan or . . .

Forget it. I was wrong.

And there is a small lesson in there for us. When evidence accumulates we might explain away the evidence, but we should not. As my dissertation wisely said about one sufficiently “clever” dodge in interpreting the text of Timaeus: “Maybe, but why would anyone believe it in the first place?” She was right. I scrapped that section and the dissertation was better for it. I could have persisted, but that would have been intellectual stubbornness without the fun of arguing with Papaw!

I have learned to stop and and consider: “Why do I believe this? What is at stake? Am I being stubborn?”

There is joy in being wrong. It never did me any harm to lose to Papaw and God knows that I would give anything to admit to him: “It was a fox, Papaw.” That day is coming, though. The day when every error will be revealed and it will be just fine. See you on that day, Papaw.