
Introduction:
Myth, Belief, Faith and Ripley's
Believe It or Not!
When I was a kid I believed everything I was told, everything I read, and every dispatch sent out by
my own overheated imagination. This made for more than a few sleepless nights, but it also filled the
world I lived in with colors and textures I would not have traded for a lifetime of restful nights. I
knew even then, you see, that there were people in the world — too many of them, actually — whose
imaginative senses were either numb or completely deadened, and who lived in a mental state akin to
colorblindness. I always felt sorry for them, never dreaming (at least then) that many of these un-
imaginative types either pitied me or held me in contempt, not just because I suffered from any
number of irrational fears but because I was deeply and unreservedly credulous on almost every
subject. 'There's a boy,' some of them must have thought (I know my mother did), 'who will buy the
Brooklyn Bridge not just once but over and over again, all his life.'
There was some truth to that then, I suppose, and if I am to be honest, I suppose there's some
truth to it now. My wife still delights in telling people that her husband cast his first Presidential
ballot, at the tender age of twenty-one, for Richard Nixon. 'Nixon said he had a plan to get us out of
Vietnam,' she says, usually with a gleeful gleam in her eye, 'and Steve believed him!'
That's right; Steve believed him. Nor is that all Steve has believed during the often-eccentric course
of his forty-five years. I was, for example, the last kid in my neighborhood to decide that all those
street-corner Santas meant there was no real Santa (I still find no logical merit in the idea; it's like saying
that a million disciples prove there is no master). I never questioned my Uncle Oren's assertion that
you could tear off a person's shadow with a steel tent-peg (if you struck precisely at high noon, that
was) or his wife's claim that every time you shivered, a goose was walking over the place where your
grave would someday be. Given the course of my life, that must mean I'm slated to end up buried
behind Aunt Rhody's barn out in Goose Wallow, Wyoming.
I also believed everything I was told in the schoolyard; little minnows and whale-sized whoppers
went down my throat with equal ease. One kid told me with complete certainty that if you put a dime
down on a railroad track, the first train to come along would be derailed by it. Another kid told me
that a dime left on a railroad track would be perfectly smooshed (that was exactly how he put it —
perfectly smooshed) by the next train, and what you took off the rail after the train had passed would
be a flexible and nearly transparent coin the size of a silver dollar. My own belief was that both
things were true: that dimes left on railroad tracks were perfectly smooshed before they derailed the
trains which did the smooshing.
Other fascinating schoolyard facts which I absorbed during my years at Center School in Stratford,
Connecticut, and Durham Elementary School in Durham, Maine, concerned such diverse subjects as
golf-balls (poisonous and corrosive at the center), miscarriages (sometimes born alive, as malformed
monsters which had to be killed by health-care individuals ominously referred to as 'the special nurses'),
black cats (if one crossed your path, you had to fork the sign of the evil eye at it quickly or risk