When our embellishments go too far

Orlando R. Barone

is a writer in Doylestown

The other day my thirty-something daughter recounted a story that occurred when she was about 12. Cari had disturbed her father, me, to the point where I began chasing her around the kitchen, through the house, up the stairs, and into her bedroom, where I attempted without success to put her over my knee. The fiasco ended with both of us collapsing in laughter.

In my recollection, I was far less bizarre and much calmer. Yet I knew once I heard it that Cari's version was closer to what a video of the event would have revealed.

I was reminded of my revisionist history when NBC newsman Brian Williams was caught embellishing a war-zone experience in a military helicopter. In fact, Williams performed my mental cleanup in reverse.

Whereas I reinvented a less crazed version of myself, he conjured a more valorous variation of reality. Williams became more endangered, more closely allied with the intrepid troops in harm's way. He even adopted military jargon to decorate the tale as it acquired added hazard and drama. Williams embellished; I disembellished.

Why do remembrances change? Or, why do we change them? One answer, for both me and Williams, is obvious. The new narrative made us look better. I seemed saner; he seemed braver.

Why is it important to seem better? Whom are we asking to think well of us? Whoever they are, their opinion is important enough to affect our memories. I am not in the business of celebrity, where one courts the approval of anonymous millions, so I can't say I understand the pressure to be loved or admired by them.

I have given many presentations over the years, and I do know the value of a good personal anecdote that draws the audience toward me, causes it to smile, laugh, or applaud approvingly. The temptation to add a dash more derring-do can be strong. I can't say I've always resisted it, but I make it a priority to stick to the facts as I remember them.

As a news anchor, Williams has a special responsibility to assure viewers of the veracity of his statements, especially concerning an event in which he was a key player.

When he decided it was a good idea to go on an entertainment show with David Letterman, his responsibility to stick to facts became murkier. Judy Garland was known to spin outrageous yarns on The Dick Cavett Show, and her appearances are legendary, fun, and full of completely unreliable accounts.

Garland, however, had no public role in which her credibility was essential to her standing. People wanted to hear how salacious the Munchkins were, and she obliged them. Williams seems to have felt a need to make himself a bit more heroic in a competitive environment where every edge counts.

Maybe it is better to be content with smaller-scale heroism. Shortly before this scandal broke, Williams' daughter, Allison, Peter Pan to my grandkids, sat with Jon Stewart on The Daily Show. Stewart at once began to poke fun at Brian, a frequent guest on his program.

When the ribbing got a little too pointed, Ms. Williams shot Stewart a look that said, unmistakably: That's my dad you are skewering, pal. Stewart backed off.

My daughter, Cari, loves to tell stories of the infinite ways her father makes a fool of himself, to roll her eyes, and react to the laughter of all who hear her. Then she turns those eyes to me, and I see only love and admiration. She can joke about my foibles, but, like Allison Williams, she might not take kindly to someone else trying it.

Your beautiful and talented daughter loves and honors you, Brian, exactly as you are. Take it from a fellow dad with flaws to spare, that's hero enough for any of us, and it doesn't need embellishment.