Opinion & Comment

'Liar's Table' taught writer to observe . . .

APPALACHIAN NOTEBOOK - Steve Oden

When old men, sitting around a coffee table, start falling out of their chairs with laughter, you know someone has told a good joke.

Because I’ve lived in rural Appalachian communities for most of my life, I know what constitutes grass roots comedy. It is the type of story telling that occurs at morning and afternoon gathering places, also called “liar’s tables,” where retirees, blue collar workers, farmers, and business people gather for a cup of coffee and to catch up on gossip.

I’ve been privileged to enjoy membership in several such elite groups, whose purpose was to critique local government, solve the woes of the world, and trade side-splitters.

Unfortunately, the Internet, corporate franchising, Starbucks, and the advancing age of people who frequent community coffee tables have led to fewer liar’s tables. I still encounter them during my travels around the region, but not with any regularity.

One of the best was at McLemore’s Drug Shoppe in a small, south Appalachian town. The proprietor, Mrs. Jeffie McLemore, continued a tradition started by her husband, Carl, many years before his death.

Carl, a Republican in a Democratic county, set up two tables in a corner of the downtown pharmacy. He added a coffee maker, foam cups, creamer, and sugar. For a nickel, you could drink a hot cup of java while your prescription was being filled and argue with Carl about Eisenhower or Nixon.

Gradually, people started dropping by when they had no need for medicine, hair oil, or nail clippers. They stayed 20 minutes or an hour, sometimes longer. They told stories, guffawed at jokes, argued football, and commented on politics... something Carl was always ready to debate.

The group grew to a dozen members, swelled to three dozen, and became so large that members had to arrive and depart in shifts: morning, mid-morning, noon, afternoon, and quitting time. The group was dubbed the “Liar’s Table Club,” and official certificates of membership were issued.

It was a great honor to be asked to pull up a chair and sup coffee at the Liar’s Table Club. I had worked as the newspaper publisher in the community for over two years before my initiation rites.

I was drafted as a junior member. My fellows and I occupied the small table in the back, and we mainly listened… only commenting when asked by a senior member at the main table. What I learned about the families, history, and politics of the community was invaluable.

Later, I was promoted to the main table during the afternoon shift. After eight years, I still hadn’t graduated to the main morning table, but I could stand and observe.

Carl became ill and passed away, a great loss to the group. At his funeral, one of the largest memorial wreathes was from the Liar’s Table Club. This started a tradition of sending flowers or memorials to the funerals of members… and taking up collections of money for worthy local causes.

But, what we existed for was to gossip, keep up with other people’s business, and tell jokes.

“Miz Jeffie” kindly allowed the Liar’s Table Club to continue to take up valuable merchandise space in the corner of her drug store. She looked the other way when a ribald story was quietly told, or when we gossiped about whose husband or wife was running around with whom.

Miz Jeffie was an upstanding Methodist lady, too, so there was no cussing.

Occasionally, she would surprise us. During particularly heated arguments, she might look down from the prescription counter sternly and comment, “Mr. Steven Oden, you’re a damned fool if that’s what you believe!” This caused many a Liar’s Table Club member to re-examine his political ­— and personal — beliefs.

One day, Miz Jeffie posted a sign that caused a stir: “Due to the price of coffee going up, I will now have to charge 25 cents per cup. The honor system is still in place.” This was after most restaurants had already upped the price of a cup to 75 cents or a dollar, but the Liar’s Table Club – tongues firmly in cheeks – debated going out on strike because of the 200-percent increase. In the end, we grumbled but paid the quarter. No one wanted to mess up a good deal.

I assumed an unusual job for a publisher. It was my duty to deliver 100 copies of our newspaper to the pharmacy in the afternoons. This gave me an excuse to drink coffee and listen to criticisms of our news coverage and editorial stance. They kept me on my toes, journalistically. They taught me to develop thick skin, too.

I loved the Liar’s Table Club and its members. When I moved to another newspaper in another community, there was a gap in my daily routine, from 3-3:30 p.m. I had knocked around town for a month or more, searching for a coffee table where men, young or old, gathered, when someone told me about the fire station.

“Yeah, if you want to hear a bunch of lying and griping, that’s the place to go,” the informant said with a wink.

When I walked through the doors of the fire hall, I smelled brewing coffee and saw a table of grinning faces. Someone handed me a cup and pulled out a chair.

It was like I had come home.