My parents were storytellers. One of my father’s favorite tall tales was about a character named Dicey.  He could not resist stories of Dicey.  If the fish were not biting, he claimed the creature – part dog, part boy – came out of the water and followed him home saying, “Wait for Dicey, wait for Dicey.” Mother’s stories were her version of singsong nursery rhymes – “the sky is falling, the sky is falling” – or Bible stories to teach a lesson. She told stories while cooking, cleaning, ironing, and so forth. Porch time was the best. Sitting on the back porch at a chipped white table, stories filled the gaps with richness and texture. During such moments, lifetimes drifted through the still southern air. When I made up stories, Mother told me I was fibbing. Isabel Allende says the element of lying in fiction may allow us to find the deepest truths. A storyteller uses everything. I presume a lie, fib, or tall tale is most valuable if it complicates someone’s version of the way the world works. Like my father’s pretending Dicey muddied his fishing hole when he came home without fish for dinner, I grew up harnessing imagination, playacting anything I wanted to be. Along the way I learned that serious play is an important part of how identities are formed, every game a rehearsal for life. Regardless of roles, I am still in search of deeper truths.