I might as well come right out and say that I’m an eccentric narrator. I come by it naturally. My grandpa was a fabulist of the first order. He told wonderful stories! My siblings believed him—every word of every story. Me? I knew from the start that there was a difference between fiction and lies. This distinction, paired with the inclination to entertain, to inform metaphorically, and to hold the floor against all odds, has led me to a life filled with stories of dubious factual basis and to confrontations with the hazy line between fact and fiction that never bothered Grandpa in the least.
Of course, Grandpa never ended up in the middle of a huge legal ‘gray area’ trying to explain who did what, when and with whom, to Feds in ugly suits who expect me to recall dates and places with precise accuracy. Grandpa’s audience rolled with his stories. Sure, we had an occasional question, but no one hammered him for the details or pressed him for a timeline of events or demanded that he come up with the money!