I begin with a confession: I am a liar, natural born, home grown, and organic.

From the time I could string a sentence together, fact and fiction have jostled for position like unruly twins. In fairness, I grew up swimming in a bright sea of improbable stories. Santa Claus and Jesus held equal footing when I was four, though Santa’s generous nature gave him the early advantage. The Virgin Mary rose heavenward without wings; Superman did so too with far greater frequency and velocity. A Japanese kamikaze killed my Godfather Eddy, and Truman dropped the A-bomb on them. In my young arithmetic, the world made sense in its own chaotic and fabulous way.

My parents, alarmed by my narrative exuberance, crafted a test. They read Dr. Seuss’s To Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street to me again and again, hoping its lesson might germinate. After hearing my latest escapade, they’d fix me with a piscatorial eye and ask, “Jackie… did this happen on Mulberry Street?” And I’d apply the Seuss Test. More often than not, yes — my adventures did indeed occur on Mulberry Street, and I owned them proudly.

I remain suspicious, however, of that “little bird” who so reliably betrayed my secret investigations to my mother. I never dared ask her whether the Watch Bird hailed from Mulberry Street as well. I always carried a few stones in my trouser pockets in case by good fortune I should get the drop on the stool pigeon.

So, gentle reader, take this as fair warning: much of what you’ll find here happened on Mulberry Street.  I wouldn’t have it any other way. I live there.