"At least you're awake," Judy Hammer said without so much as a good morning. "I'm-

"I thought you were going to call me out in emergencies," he interrupted her. "I wish you'd let me know about the truck driver at the Farmers' Market."

"You weren't needed," she said.

"Same M.O.? Was he cut on?"

"I'm afraid so. Several cuts to his neck with what looks like a razor, but none of them lethal," she replied. "Apparently, the assailants left in a hurry, and he came to long enough to call nine-one-one. The reason I called is, I'm waiting, Trooper Truth," Hammer let him know. "I thought you said your website was going up at six-thirty. That was five minutes ago."

It was her way of telling him good luck.

The rich early history of the U.S.A. is based largely on eyewitness observations described in letters, true adventures, testimonies, maps, and books published in the early seventeenth century. Most of those original accounts have been lost forever or are silently maintained in private collections. Other historical documentation, sadly, was stored in Richmond and burned up during the Civil War so Northerners could rewrite the facts and convince schoolchildren the world over that our country really got its start in Plymouth, which is simply a lie.

That lie and others should come as no surprise. So much of what we know as "fact" in life is, in truth, nothing more than propaganda or a well-meant reflection on how events and people are perceived by those with a bias and poor vision. Tales pass from lips to lips, from news story to news story, from e-mail to e-mail, from politicians to us, from witnesses to jurors, and eventually we are led to believe all manner of things that are grossly distorted if not patently false. This is why, as I begin to have these conversations with you, the reader, I will rely on my own primary research and experiences, and focus on science and medicine, which have neither imaginations nor personalities nor politics nor grudges.

DNA, for example, frankly doesn't care if you did it. DNA doesn't care if you didn't do it. DNA knows exactly who you, your parents, and your children are, but has no opinion about it and no interest in being a friend or getting your votes. DNA knows it was you who left seminal fluid in someone, but is neither judgmental nor voyeuristic about how or why that deposit might have occurred. So I am far more inclined to trust DNA than the defendant on the witness stand, and it is a shame that DNA is too busy working crimes and pedigree disputes to reconstruct the history of the United States. If DNA had the time, I suspect we would find that most of what we presently believe about the past is tainted, perhaps shockingly so.

Since DNA isn't available to serve as our narrator in this series of essays, I will do the best I can to tell you what I have discovered about the beginning of English America, in hopes that it will serve as a metaphor for who we are and what has become of our society. The story begins with a small but significant turn of events on the docks of London, December 20, 1606, when thirty-six mariners and one hundred and eight settlers said painful goodbyes and no doubt comforted themselves in alehouses on the Isle of Dogges, as it was spelled on a 1610 map of London.

The settlers and the mariners who would pilot the ships to Virginia descended the Blackwall stairs to the docks, where these brave adventurers, who wanted more in life, including gold and silver, boarded the Susan Constant, the Godspeed, and the Discovery, and began their historic voyage to the New World by being stalled in the mouth of the Thames for six weeks. Records cite the reason for the delay as either no wind or wind that blew in the wrong direction.

If any of the stranded settlers looked back toward the alehouses and experienced a change of heart, we know nothing about it, but the math indicates that no one jumped ship. During the voyage, one settler died in the Caribbean, possibly from heatstroke, and on May 14, 1607, when the three ships finally tied up at Jamestown Island on the north shore of the James River in Virginia, one hundred and seven settlers disembarked. Soon after, three settlers were killed by Indians, and in July, the ships sailed back to England for supplies, leaving one hundred and four settlers to fend for themselves.

Their number dwindled quickly and dramatically as the mariners and Captain Newport made the endless voyage back to England. There, I suspect, the men restored themselves and made plans in Isle of Dogs alehouses and at the Sir Walter Raleigh House while the settlers waited for supplies and tried to develop peaceful relations with the Indians-or Naturals, as the settlers called the Native Americans-by giving them bits of copper and trading other trinkets for tobacco and food.

No one thus far has been able to give me a definitive explanation for why the settlers and the Naturals had such an inconsistent relationship, but I suspect the answer lies in human nature, which inspires people to overpower others and to be touchy, bigoted, selfish, greedy, deceitful, and to beat up innocent people and steal trucks. Nor could anybody tell me why the Isle of Dogs was named such, and I can only speculate the obvious:

The name may refer to sea dogs, since it is known that many Elizabethan sailors and pirates patronized the alehouses while resting from where they had been or waiting to sail out to wherever they were going.

I will go into great detail about pirates soon enough, for they certainly were a powerful presence when America was trying to get started, and we still have a problem with them today on our highways and high seas, although the pirates' mode of transportation, equipment, and weapons have dramatically evolved over the centuries. It is unfortunate, I'm sorry to tell you, that modern pirates have the same personality and modus operandi as pirates of old. They remain cruel-hearted cutthroats whose creed is dead men tell no tales, thus justifying their seizing of ships and tractor trailers and murdering everyone in sight. Lest Virginians assume their history is untouched by such despicable character disorders, let me remind you that the Chesapeake Bay once bristled with pirates, and Virginia's Tangier Island openly traded with and hosted them and, as legend has it, was visited by Blackbeard himself.

As I begin sharing truths with you, the reader, I hope you will reflect upon your own life and try very hard to put at least one other person's needs and feelings before your own this day. Just as objects in the mirror are closer than they appear, so The Past rides our bumper along life's highways and may, in fact, be inside the car with us. Who we are is who we were and the more things change, the less they do, unless we start with our hearts.

Be careful out there!