by Billy Snead

Frank M. Hohenberger (American, 1876–1963) The Liars’ Bench

The Liars Bench – Heart to Heart and Soul to Soul

The “liars’ bench” has deep roots in American folk culture, especially in rural communities across the Midwest and South. It wasn’t just a place to sit—it was a stage, a sanctuary, and a social ritual.

Historically, these benches were often found in prominent public spots: courthouse lawns, general store porches, or under shade trees in town squares. My grandpas’ favorite liars’ bench was in front of the gas station at the mouth of the hollow where he lived.

My mom and I have been writing out her story of life and she shared with me my grandpa’s love of the liars’ bench.

This bench became a fixture of daily life where he gathered with buddies to swap stories, share opinions, and, yes, stretch the truth a little. My grandma would complain about my grandpa going to “waste time” on the liar’s bench. Most people were amazed at the wisdom shared on the liars bench.

I was so curious. What made him love sitting on that bench?

I am researching my grandpa’s death in the coal mines, and as I have learned more about what happened I often wonder what Safety was like before it became a metric, a rulebook, and checklist with little to no consideration for the whole person. Has it changed at all?

Both of my grandpas worked in the coal mines of West Virginia.  Both of my grandpas were injured in the mines and one, my grandpa Dutch, was killed in a slate fall accident. He was a roof bolter and worked hard to support his family.

Photo of Slate Fall Accident – Not my grandpa

Dutch’s accident happened in August of 1959.  My mom was writing a letter to a friend when she heard the ambulance scream by.  She did not know it carried her dad to the hospital where he would die 10 days later. Her families’ world was shattered that day.

When I spoke to my mom about this story, the very first thing she said was that no one from the company came to see the family.  No one acknowledged her dad’s death.  She said the silence from the company was deafening. It hurt. She still gets emotional speaking of it today.

I wonder about older safety and what it was like.

I can’t help but believe safety was something better than it is today. Something you could overhear when you walked by an old bench.

I wonder what made grandpa seek that bench?

I can imagine an old wooden bench, possibly made of railroad ties, crooked, full of splinters, and dusty from the gravel roads. Old men laughing, crying, and being with their friends and buddies. Just being. Connecting.

They called it the Liars’ Bench jokingly, truth, after all, was never just about facts. It was about stories, exaggerated or not, that revealed something more meaningful: personhood, presence, and the sharing of meaning between a few old miners enjoying their day. Truth, especially in relationships, isn’t always reducible to cold, hard data. In the context of the liar’s bench and my learning in SPoR, truth is relational, not transactional. It’s about resonance, not just accuracy. Can you imagine the resonance felt between these miners and their friends?

In Rob Long’s post “Propositions to Not Live By” on SafetyRisk.net he writes how meaning is formed not through rigid propositions but through poetic, embodied experience—a space where truth is lived, not declared. And in “51 Stories in Culture, To Live and To Be,” Rob Long and Nippin Anand’s new book – (you must read this book!!) they offer narrative insights that highlight how culture and identity are shaped through story, not systems. I learned so much from their writings on stories.

When my grandpa said, “Back in ’42 I caught a bass bigger than this bench,” no one fact-checked him. The truth wasn’t the measurement—it was in the gesture, the shared laughter, the memories stirred, the camaraderie of being a coal miner. It was a way of saying, “I belong,” or “I remember,” or even “I’m still here.” I believe we have lost this in many organizations today.

I was having some fun with a safety friend a few weeks ago and told him – Truth is never about facts—and it rocked his world. We weren’t on a liar’s bench; we were at my fire pit. It made me feel as though I was sitting on the liar’s bench! I knew I was stirring his pot! I challenged his traditional safety belief that treats knowledge as something fixed, measurable, and controllable.

I heard a phrase once from a speaker – Truth can invite us into living truths—the kind you can feel in your bones, the kind shared through story, silence, and presence. Living truths are not about data and measuring each other. Instead, they show up in the warmth of a knowing glance, the hush after a shared loss, or the cadence of a story told not to impress—but to connect. I have felt living truth in my great grandpas’ stories. I fell asleep to many of them. But I also remembered enough of them to feel truth. Imagine a seasoned coal miner quietly pulling aside a younger worker after a near miss—not to fill out a near miss form so he can receive credit and meet a quota, but to share what really happened: the glance, the gut feeling, the hesitation. That shared moment would never make it into the formal investigation, but it’s a living truth—the kind passed on through presence, not paper. This would be true risk wisdom shaped by relational trust.

A short book “Finding Truth in Life and Love: One Man’s Journey” by George Kyriacou helped me realize this as well. This book explores the search for truth through a personal journey, questioning intellectual explanations and suggesting that wisdom gained through life experiences offers a deeper understanding than knowledge alone.

Some would say those old miners do not have a lot of knowledge, but I believe that life taught them to be wise.

Friedrich Nietzsche said “There is more wisdom in your body than in your deepest philosophy.” When I think about truth you can feel in your bones, I am describing a way of knowing that isn’t just cognitive, it is felt and remembered in the body. This is embodied knowing. It’s the kind of truth my grandpa might have passed on at the liar’s bench—not through instruction, but through presence, winks, pauses, laughter and the trust that “you had to be there.”

Working this week at one of my clients I heard someone say – I care for these people deeply. If safety is ultimately about care, this kind of truth is vital. Because no one is transformed by a statistic, but people are transformed by a story that acknowledges them. You want to know how important acknowledging others is? Ask my mom.  She would tell you how important it was for that company and its leaders to acknowledge her dad.

In the Social Psychology of Risk, we often discuss personhood over regulation and relationship over regulation.

Could the liars’ bench have been the original risk assessment?  I am sure my grandpa didn’t speak of hazards and risk matrices, he spoke of fears, laughed at close calls, and passed on wisdom.  Yes, there were lies, but they served a purpose.

What made my grandpa love that old bench? It was messy, relational, and deeply embodied. Nothing was ever written down, but everything that mattered was remembered. After working in the coal mine all day, he would seek that bench.  Before he went to work on his hoot owl shift in the evening, he would seek that bench.

Think of the learning that took place at the Liar’s Bench. I wish that I could sit there for a day and just listen to the wisdom. I would cherish that.

I am so grateful that my mom shared with me the story about my grandpa and his love for a dusty old wooden bench. The Liar’s Bench honors the idea that storytelling isn’t just entertainment; it’s how we become who we are.

My grandpa was a kind and generous soul who loved music and would often sit at the foot of his bed and sing and play the guitar for my mom. Her family was devastated at his death.  His presence, life, memories, and love were gone. Personhood is so important in life and work.

The bench was not about rest. It was about just being with friends, family, co-workers. It was about laughing, crying, learning, and dying. It was about connection.

Maybe the Liars Bench was not just a place to sit, but a symbol of what safety should seek to understand – the whole person.

Maybe the liar’s bench was never about lying. Maybe it was about being seen not for the job you did, but for the stories you carried, the laughs, the silences – just being there.

I see it as a sanctuary of personhood—long before safety became a system.

Maybe before someone can be safe, they must first be known.

Something drew those men to those benches – I think I know what it was.

Maybe we as safety people could help create liars’ benches in our workplaces. Or maybe they are already there, and we don’t see them.