I was a liar, too. Usually I told untruths to improve the story rather than to duck blame, which is a justification about as worthy as not making money at one’s crime. When I was seven I claimed I’d spun the hula hoop around me a million times, insisting upon it if anyone acted incredulous, and when they all stopped objecting I actually thought I’d snowed them. I had no idea how long it would have taken me to count to a million.

When I was eight and John was five, we broke one of our parents’ cards, playing Slapjack. We weren’t supposed to use their fancy double set of KEMs; we had our own rough-backed five-and-dime decks. But I so loved the slippery feel of their cards when I shuffled, that I talked young John into playing with them, and sure enough a jack snapped in two pieces, imperfectly in a diagonal making two useless polygons, when our palms dropped together on it before it was flat.

I was all for simple denial. Let the parents find the pieces; we weren’t supposed to play with the cards so of course we hadn’t played with them. But my brother John made George Washington look sneaky. He insisted that we confess. He confessed for both of us.

I don’t think I actually felt valued until fifth grade, with Mr. Fartham. He saw something in me, and he helped me see it too. Then selfish didn’t seem so bad.

He made everyone read or recite a poem each Thursday morning. Within a month the whole class had memorized the first stanza of the verse about Paul Revere’s ride, so even if you didn’t prepare you could always stand up and belt out : “Now listen my children and you shall hear …” But I always went to the trouble of finding something, and Mr. Fartham appreciated it. I’ll never forget reading “The Ballad of Lenin’s Tomb” to them. I loved Robert Service’s rhythms, and I got into it at the climax of the poem, when the bomb is about to blow. I had the class in suspense. Mr. Fartham led them all in actual applause when I finished. It was a shining moment for me.

He had a few other favored students, but I always knew I was number one with him. There was Valerie Otterholt, big and fat and lonely. She wasn’t stupid but I was pretty sure he paid her attention because she was sad. That and because she had the same name as his daughter. There was Kevin Sullivan, who had strange science ideas and stuttered. And there was Jimmy Wilson, who rocked in his chair and always got into trouble. I resented Jimmy. He was one of those kids who got attention by acting up. He made it seem stupid to be good.

Fifth grade was about the 16^th and 17^th centuries. Mr. Fartham used to read from then to us while we worked on art projects. I remember I was trying to build a toothpick tower when he told us that in the 1500s, people used to drink ale and whiskey out of lead cups. The combination could poison a person enough to knock him out for a couple of days. So folks would prepare such a person for burial but keep the corpse in the kitchen for awhile, to see if he woke up. Family gathered around for that vigil, and family has to be fed. Hence the wake.

(next 500 words next Wednesday)