“Indian Jim” was one of several colorful characters I knew as a boy while living in Southeast Bakersfield, an area known back then as “Little Oklahoma” due to being settled by Dust Bowl migrants like my maternal grandfather John Caldwell. In an age of radio long before TV we cherished our storytellers, and while grandad was a good storyteller there were none better than my great-grandmother. She didn’t fabricate things, but would tell stories about the past from her own life experiences that held my brother Ronnie and me spellbound. Not discounting the many hardships of her life, “grandma” made events come alive for us as the best of storytellers do; and her own life had been so full of excitement she didn’t have to make things up.

But there were others like Indian Jim that were given to superstitions and tall tales, and Ronnie and I knew many of his stories were stretchers. However, he was a good storyteller and Ronnie and I were taught to respect our elders, to not talk back or express any disrespect of our elders. There was something else about Indian Jim I couldn’t be expected to understand as a child; he needed to feel important. Though ignorant and illiterate he still had a feeling of self-worth, and telling stories was his way of creating self-esteem for himself.

One of the stories he would tell was of owning a pistol used in a murder. He slept with it under his pillow and when he awoke it would have blood on it. He would wipe the blood off, but the next morning the blood would reappear. He would tell this story in all seriousness, and would have been crushed if Ronnie and I were to express any disbelief; which, of course, we didn’t. It was the way we were raised, and contradicting our elders was unthinkable to us. And young as I was, somehow I knew the old fellow wasn’t trying to take advantage of Ronnie and me. The same cannot be said of many like politicians and some others that are obviously lying in order to take advantage or do harm.

However, I’ve never forgotten Indian Jim’s need to tell his stories, his need to feel like he was somebody, a person needing attention in order to somehow justify his being alive to others and be remembered. I’ve no doubt the most successful of my own Choctaw Cherokee storytelling ancestors did considerable embellishment, but in most cases to make important events memorable. As such, the distinction between telling lies designed to harm or take advantage should always be separated from what are stories to either entertain or give a person a sense of self-worth and importance, even the stories of memorable events and people that eventually fall into the category of myths and legends.

Children often engage in stretchers with their peers and even their parents; it is all part of growing up.

Eventually, we become adults and try to be truthful, but some never leave that stage of childhood and continue to engage in “stories” in order to feel important. Many stories of the supernatural, of UFOs and “alien abductions” probably fall into this category of the person’s need of attention. But some are in need of medical attention.

A fellow I knew quite well was given to stories of being followed by the FBI. He would recount some bizarre events of this and expected everyone to believe him. The problem was I knew him and the FBI well enough not to credit such stories. About a year ago the doctors found he had a brain tumor and he is presently undergoing treatment. I have no doubt this occasioned the stories he would tell, and undoubtedly believed, a case much like that of John Forbes Nash.

I have always liked Shirley MacLaine, and she certainly means no harm by her stories of the paranormal; and if I say I like her as a lovable kook there is no disrespect intended. But I do wonder if there was a need in her childhood, a time during which she felt the need to tell a few stretchers in order to feel she was important. I suppose most show business people had similar needs and some succeeded in carrying out their fantasies into adulthood on Broadway and in films. There are numerous examples of show business people that continue to live lives of fantasy, who never seem to outgrow their need for special attention no matter how successful they become.

Right now as political candidates parade before the cameras some are quite obviously an embarrassing caricature of show business personalities, and most of us know politicians are unabashed celebrity groupies. It is no secret money will buy a lot of things, but it won’t buy a feeling of being loved and adored by an audience; the source of envy on the part of politicians for some celebrities.

But no matter how you mix them or what labels they use, no one would question the wealthy run things. They own our government and the media, the entertainment industry, so the messages sent out by these reflects the thinking of the wealthy, not the majority of Americans. While the infighting among the wealthy can get nasty, even deadly at times, nevertheless it is the wealthy classes that make the rules and run things.

In too many ways America is seen by many nations as a spoiled child rather than an adult dealing with the real issues of life; Hollywood and TV certainly promoting such an image. But the reality; that which is not the America portrayed by the wealthy running things is the rapidly declining hopes of a better future on the part of ordinary Americans.

What is lacking today is a politician of national note that can tell a good story. Things are so bad it seems none of them can possibly deal with the truth, and we expect politicians to lie as a matter of course. But I long for an Indian Jim, someone that can tell a bald-faced lie and tell it as though they actually believe it themselves and mean it to be taken seriously by others. In the face of impending disaster for America, you would think the wealthy would take note and promote someone in politics that could at least tell a good story.

Imagine an America where people are reduced to gathering around communal fires once more, depending on storytellers to give them hope in the face of national tragedy and misery, the case of so many nations throughout history and the source many stories we find in books like the Bible. This is the condition of many people now throughout the world; people that still depend on the storytellers to give them hope and brighten their miserable lives.

Within my own memory I recall such an America, I recall the fires being built to heat water in galvanized tubs to bathe or do laundry and even cooking outdoors of necessity; we very much needed our storytellers like grandma back them. But America lacks leaders that can tell a good story, and whatever the outcome of this election we are all the poorer for this. We are being told lies, and the lies are as improbable as the story of Indian Jim’s pistol without the sole redeeming virtue of being told by good storytellers. Certainly We the People want change, but none of those presently “onstage” can tell a good story. And even apart from that I cannot but feel a great foreboding that one of these people, the choice of the wealthy despite the appearance of things, will be our next president.