Sometimes You Need Empirical Proof

There are times when it isn’t enough to know something. Theoretically, that is. You need empirical proof. You need to know, without a doubt, whether something is true or not. And it doesn’t matter if someone you respect leads you to believe it’s true. You simply need to find out for yourself.

Larry was a 5th grader and missing one of his fingers. He is the first kid I ever knew without all ten digits. I never found out why the finger was gone; it just was. He was a rough and tough kind of kid, the type your parents wouldn’t want you to be around. No one dared to walk up to him and ask, “So Larry, what happened to your finger. Did you get chopped it off or something?”

How it was I came into such an intimate conversation with Larry that I learned the song he was singing, I don’t recall. But I did, and it was a song, for any number of reasons, I liked. I remember to this day.

The lyrics were short, simple, and, in my formidable mind, quite catchy. It was one of those songs that songwriters in the business call “a hook.” I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I sang it every time I thought about it, and I thought about it often.

“In 1844, My mother went to war. She was digging a ditch like a son-of-a-b**** in 1884.”

My mind was young and uncluttered, free from all the mundane stuff that clutters it today. I was able to learn things quickly back then, mainly things I liked. My memory was stellar, and I could recall most anything on command. However, I would soon learn that this little ditty would have been better forgotten.

I felt more jolly than usual walking home from school that day. The catchy tune I had learned flowed freely from my mind into my vocal cords, bursting from my lips. I sang that song from the top of my lungs all the way home. I wanted the whole neighborhood to hear.

When I arrived home, I couldn’t wait to share it with my big brother.

“Hey George,” I enthusiastically said, “listen to this new song I learned!” I proudly sang the well-rehearsed song. Immediately following the brief performance, I confidently announced that I would sing it to our step-father. “Don’t sing that Ron,” he warned me, “it’s has a bad word in it — you’ll get in trouble.”

“Why?” I thought, with the misguided confidence of a foolish boy, that Larry knew more than my older brother. I was about to find out that older brothers are right.

With as much bravado as a nine-year-old can muster, I approached our step-father and began to sing.

“In 1844, My mother went to war. She was digging a ditch like a son-of-a-b**** in 1884.”

No sooner had I finished, perhaps even before the last word of the short one verse song, I felt the sting of his hand smacking me upside the head.

Sometimes you need empirical proof to know if something is true or not.