Let's be clear. When it comes to lying, I'm terrible. I can't lie to save my skin. When I was in the first grade, a bunch of us were doing the dreaded "talking in line" thing. Well, the teacher came by, heard the chatter, and walked up the line asking each student, "Were you talking?" Most of my fellow first-graders said, "No, teacher." Of course, they had been talking the loudest. When it came my turn, being no fool, I followed suit and said, "No, teacher." Case closed. My first lie worked like a charm...so I thought.

I was wrong. For months, I was consumed by guilt. If the preacher talked about sinners, I was sure he had me and Hitler in mind. Whenever I saw lightening, I was sure I was going to be fried. I was a nervous wreck. Finally, after many restless months, I confessed my crime. I was finally able to rest at night and not run from dark clouds. I decided to make my first lie my last. From then on, I went out of my way to tell the truth, and I usually succeeded. I figured no punishment would be as bad as the one I had just put myself through. To this day, I'm a terrible liar: terrible in that I have no lying skills, no desire to learn and no stomach to succeed.

My inability to lie is hereditary. My parents can't hide the truth either. As a child, my mother told her sister about the cool Christmas gift she had for her. Pointing to the freshly wrapped package, she said, "You'll never guess what's in those bowls." "Those bowls" kind of gave it away. None of my relatives are in the CIA. I think you can see why.

I have described my inability to lie, because one of my friends and constant readers asked if everything I write in these columns is true. Trust me. Everything I say about myself is true. If I talk about meeting someone, or traveling somewhere, or some life event, you can take it as gospel. When I'm spinning a yarn, it'll be clear that it's fictional and a poetic device I'm using. I've led a very interesting life, so I don't have to invent a pretend one. And the fact that this is lightening season has nothing to do with it. I promise.

David McCoy, a notorious storyteller and proud Yellow Jacket, lives in Conyers. He can be reached at davmccoy@bellsouth.net.