Less is More

Friends and family can offer you advice until they are blue in the face, but most of life’s valuable lessons are learned the hard way. The often painful way. I’ve always been a big talker and I learned at an early age just what that looked my parents exchanged (in the middle of one of my rants) meant. Basically “My god, are you still talking?” But I couldn’t stop; I just kept trying to talk my way out of it. I was in my thirties before I really learned that, in a conversation, less if often more.
Case in point: A friend of mine had moved to Alabama after a series of most unfortunate events. His life could have been a novel, but I don’t think most would find it believable enough to finish the book. A decorated helicopter pilot in the Vietnam War, he was later in a terrible car accident that caused him to suffer a moderate (if that is possible) brain injury. This injury leads to the loss of an important administrator’s job and he ended up raising exotic animals on a local farm. I became friends with him when his wife hired me to install some beautiful stained glass sidelights she had built for a wealthy client. One spring morning of the following year the wife dropped dead on the front porch while drinking a cup of coffee. Unbelievable, huh? Well it goes on.
My friend decided he could not stay on the farm after losing his longtime spouse, so he moved to the north Georgia Mountains with a divorcee friend. They planned to raise horses and built a barn with a loft apartment to start another life. After the barn mysteriously burns they move to Alabama and try again. After settling in yet another home, my friend discovers he has bladder cancer that he believes is caused by exposure to Agent Orange during the war. The VA disagrees and he is forced to spend his life savings on treatment of the disease. After becoming almost destitute, the VA submits and agrees to pay (and back pay) for his treatments. Hooray! Finally some good news. Not quite; he is found a few days later floating in a local creek with a fatal head injury. What a tragic life.
The local authorities contacted me several days later to ask a few questions. As luck would have it, I was one of the last people he had spoken with before his death, and they were trying to create some sort of time line of his last few days. I really didn’t have anything to offer and they told me they would be in touch. After weeks ticked by with no breaks in the case, a detective called to ask if I would mind his coming to Georgia to ask me a few questions. “Sure” I offered “Anything I can do to help”.
I made plans to be in my office the day I agreed to meet the detective, but I was a little shocked when the unmarked car arrived and four large men climbed out. My office at the sawmill was tiny and I hardly had room to drag in enough chairs for everyone to sit. It went down just like an episode of Law and Order. Only one (extremely nice) man spoke and the other three glared at me while taking notes. I think we breathed up all of the good air in the first few minutes, and while I really wanted to help, I was very nervous. I understand now why people often confess to something they are completely innocent of; they make you feel guilty of something!


Luckily the interview didn’t last long, and as I walked them to the car they in turn handed me a business card. “If you think of anything that would help us with the case, please call” each offered “We need a break here”. I was still pretty nervous as we stood beside the car and to this day I still can’t imagine why I said what I did. “Where exactly did you find his body?” I asked “I think my brother lives a few miles from there.” Time stood still. I could hear my watch ticking and my heart beating as all four investigators stopped in their tracks and stared at me. When they finally broke the trance they looked at each other with an all too familiar expression. What had initially peaked their interest as a “Hmm…..” ended up with a “My god, are you still talking?” Lesson learned; less is more