Written on Sunday afternoon, June 21, 2009, in Seattle, Washington

SUMMER SOLSTICE

The news from the U.S. Open Golf Championship is that Tiger Woods is struggling with his putting. He’s having difficulty with the greens. While not a golfer, I can relate.

It’s a struggle to sit indoors in front of a computer screen and write when it’s summer in Seattle. Writer’s block? No. Writer’s restlessness? Yes. And I, too, have a problem with my putting. Out-put erratic. In-put required. And I’m having difficulty with the green - in that I’m not outside in it. Like the earth, I tilt toward the sun, which does not shine inside. Fresh experiences in the world is required - outside - out and about and around.

So, then.
On the door of this website I’ll hang a sign that simply says,
“OUT WORKING ON PUTTING.”
And take it down in September.
May the summer go well for you.
Stay amazed, stay amused.

Written on Sunday afternoon, June 7, 2009, in Seattle, Washington

SIDEWALK ARTIFACTS - THE GAME

1. A small white plastic wheel - the size of a silver dollar.
2. A black plastic lens-cover for a camera - also silver dollar size.
3. A deflated orange balloon - the size of my thumb.
4. A flashlight bulb - filament still intact.
5. A white guitar pick.
6. A penny, a nickel, and a dime.
7, The backside half of a wristwatch case - silver.
8. A stretchy turquoise whatchamcallit for a girl’s pony tail.
9. An ivory button about the size of a dime.
10. A rounded, spotted stone that looks like a bird’s egg.

These items I took out of my jacket pocket and placed on my desk to think about while I wrote this. They were collected on this morning’s walk while playing The Sidewalk Artifacts Game. Three miles - one hour.

The Five Rules: The items picked up must . . .
1. Be somewhat durable - no flowers, leaves, pine cones, or anything organic such as peels, fruit, nuts, or seeds.
2. Not be ordinary trash - tinfoil, cigarette butts, beer cans, etc.
3. Be retrieved only from the actual sidewalk - nothing from the gutter, parking strips, flower beds, or street crossings.
4. Fit into the palm of my hand and into my pocket
5. Provoke the possibility of a story - their original purpose, how they came to be there, who they might have belonged to and what will become of them.

Asides: Noticing all the detritus that did not qualify except as trash, my conscience suggested that if I saw the stuff I should pick it up, in the spirit of all those volunteers who clean the shoulders along highways. So I found one of those clear plastic bags people use to pick up their dog’s shit.

How I longed for someone to ask me where my dog was. I would say I don’t have a dog, I have a snake. An anaconda. He hides in the bushes while he does his business. Where is he now? I don’t know. Somewhere close by. You can’t miss him. He’s rather large. And fast. He likes dogs.
But that opportunity didn’t arise.

What did come up, because I was studying the sidewalk so carefully, was the memory of being told when I was a child that if you step on a crack you would break your mother’s back. It doesn’t work. But I tried. On second thought, she did say I was a royal pain in the ass - maybe a minimal result from stepping on cracks, perhaps.

It’s so easy to get compulsive and try to adjust stride to step on every crack.
But you don’t want to be obsessive, so you try not to step on every crack.
But that’s really obsessive compulsive. You’re trapped. Whichever way you go, you’re a nut case. But you knew that to begin with, so why worry?
That leads to the problem of defining a crack - do the regular seams in the
sidewalk count or just the erratic cracks in concrete produced by stress and wear and tree roots?  And if your mother is no longer alive does it make any difference anymore?

Sorry, I digress.

There were some things I found but did not collect.
One brown sandal - baby size - pre-walking - no wear on the sole.
A tiny pink purse with “Barbie” written on it.
A large gold hoop earring.
A lipstick - black case, bright red inside, well used.
A key with a tag that said “306” on it.
Three hair barrettes - all fake tortoise shell.

While there was story material in each one, these all seemed too personal to keep - one step away from someone who might come looking for them. I left them in an obvious place, safely away from being walked on. It’s like being the curator of a small part of the human museum.

Some observations.
1. Filtered cigarette butts, gum wrappers, plastic water bottle tops, and pull tabs from aluminum cans are evenly distributed. Like sterile seeds that will last forever but never grow.
2. People do collect their dog’s shit in the little bags - it’s the law. But they also often throw the bag into the bushes instead of taking it home - and, in time, wind and rain move the bags onto the sidewalk.
3. I wonder if nickels and dimes have so little value that people don’t bother to stoop and pick them up. I’ve never found a quarter or a half-dollar.
4. Small children tend to abandon socks on sidewalks.
5. Tennis balls and soccer balls are common, but, so far, no baseballs or pingpong balls. What I thought was a golf ball was a mushroom.

Surely, by now, you are wondering why I am tell you all this. Where is this going? What will I make of it? Is there going to be a slam-dunk ending? Some profound moralizing? Some deeper meaning?

No. It’s just that I was alone on my walk, and was thinking about writing something and this is what happened - what I noticed and brought home.
Over to you. 

Written on Sunday afternoon, May 31, in Seattle, Washington

HELLO?

Ring, ring, ring . . . .
Calling my friend, Gerard. Going to dinner at his house.
“Yes?”
Soft voice of older woman. Maybe another dinner guest?
“Hey, it’s Fulghum. I’m bringing cigars and wine - anything else?”
“That’s nice, but Gerard is not here . . .”
“Who is this? Where’s Gerard?”
“It’s not Gerard - he’s not here - you have the wrong number.”
“What number is this?”
She laughs. “It’s not Gerard’s number. Gerard is not here.”
She hangs up.

Now the loony lobe of my brain takes over - that place in my head where, if examined by experts, would result in a diagnosis of ASS - Accumulated Stupidity Syndrome. Miss-dialing is one of its specialties.

So.
I call the same number again.
Why?
Because there surely must be a glitch at the phone company or somebody at Gerard’s house is pulling my leg or maybe it’s Gerard himself disguising his voice. It cannot be that my wiring is crossed again and I’ve simply dialed the wrong number. No way. Not a possibility.

Ring, ring, ring . . . .
“Yes?”
Same woman’s voice.
“Gerard?”
“No, Gerard is still not here.”
“Who are you? What’s going on?”
“I’m not Gerard. You’ve dialed the wrong number again.”
“Is this 999-9999?”
“Yes, but it’s not Gerard’s number.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course I’m sure. You’ve miss-dialed.”
“Who are you?”
She laughs. “Not Gerard - that’s all you need to know.”
She hangs up.

(Now, just in case you are also afflicted with ASS -The number 999-999 is not a real number, only a literary device used here to protect the lady and Gerard. But go ahead, join the nut squad - try it. I did.)

And so.
I dial the number again.
Ring, ring, ring.
“Yes?”
Same woman’s voice.
“Look, I really hate to bother you, but I’m sure this is Gerard’s number.”
The woman begins to laugh.
“Listen,” she says, “Do you have Gerard’s number written down somewhere?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Look it up and read it to me.”
“OK . . . It’s 999-9998 . . .Oh . . . well then . . . sorry.”
“No problem,” she says, “I wrote it down, and here’s what I’ll do: If you’ll promise not to call me again - I’ll call Gerard and have him call you, OK?”
“Works for me.”
“By the way,” she asks, “Does Gerard know your number?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. By the way, did you say your name was Fulghum?”
“Yes.”
“Are you Robert Fulghum, the author?”
(long pause)
“No. He doesn’t live here anymore.”
She laughs and hangs up.

Ring. Ring. Ring.
It’s my phone.
“Hello, this is Robert Fulghum.”
“I thought so.”
Nice lady’s soft voice again. She laughs. Hangs up.
(Duh. She has caller I.D.)

Maybe I’ll call her again sometime.
When another part of my brain is working.
Even better, I’ll have Gerard call her.
I know her number.

Written on Sunday afternoon, May 31, in Seattle, Washington,

LOOK
(Street-corner thoughts, after a rainstorm . . . while standing with several other adults waiting a red light to change to green.)

This
Is not
A poem.
It is only a way
Of using words
In slow motion
To show you something.

One day
last week
After noon
After rain
A train of small children
Each holding to a loop
Of group rope
Passed by.
Teacher in the lead.
Another as caboose.
All still in raingear.

A boy let go
The rope
Stepped aside.
Stopped.
Shouted,
“Look, look, look -
A Rainbow!”
We all looked up.

The sky
had cleared.
Rainbow?
Where?

Then
We all looked
At the boy
Who was looking
Down,
Pointing at a puddle
In the grimy street
On which floated
A rainbow
In an oily film.

The teacher looked
At the boy.
The boy looked
At the teacher.
(The rules
Are clear:
Do not let go
Of the rope.
Stay with
The group.)

Come back,
Said the teacher
To the group,
Take a look.
Billy has found
A rainbow
In the street.
The children came.
The children looked.
Yes!

The teacher
smiled.
Gently took the boy
By the hand
And placed it
back in his loop
On the rope.
She knelt by him,
Hugged him
And said,
“Thank you. Billy
For seeing the rainbow.”

Come, along,
She said to the children,
And they did that,
Leaving me behind
On the corner
Looking down
Thinking about
Where
Rainbows are
Found
And how many
I must have overlooked.
And how Billy
Will feel
About rainbows
Always.

Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Written Wednesday, March 11, 2009

THE WAY OF NUDE FOOD

A man I know does not like any dressing on his salad. None.
Not blue cheese, ranch, Caesar or house whoopee-doo. None.
Not even oil-and-vinegar, lemon juice, or soy sauce. None.
Salad dressing, he asserts, masks, smothers, or kills the taste of everything else in the salad, especially anything with a fresh, delicate flavor.

It is not true that he does not like vegetables or salad per se. To the contrary.
His favorite salad includes little cherry tomatoes, avocados, baby romaine lettuce, purple and green cabbage, scallions, pine nuts, and some raisins, decorated with nasturtium blossoms.
Sometimes he throws in a few jelly beans just to surprise himself.
Why would you put any dressing on that?
He contends that if you like dressing, pour your favorite goo in a glass, add a shot of vodka and drink it.
But don’t ruin the salad.

The same is true for sauces on meat. It’s about the flavor of the meat, he says, not the ego of the cook. If you like exotic barbecue sauce, pour some in a glass, add vodka, and drink that. Otherwise, buy really good meat, he says. Cook it thoughtfully medium rare. Eat just that. Don’t ruin the meat.

The same for corn, peas, beans, cauliflower, and all the rest of the vegetables. Fresh, steamed, he says. With maybe a little butter at most. Salt sometimes. No pepper. It’s about the vegetables, not the spices, he says.

Let each thing you eat have its own say. That’s his food mantra.

This applies to bread. The bread should stand alone. Crusty sour dough.
As for whiskey – the best, straight up, water back. No cream, fruit, or umbrellas. And coffee – no flavorings. Freshly ground. Black. Hot.
And cake without icing, ice cream without chunks, and water from the tap.

His friends say he only eats nude food.
He says it’s the principle of Occam’s Razor applied to food.
The simplest resolution of an undertaking is the best.
But, unlike a lot of food fad bullies he doesn’t evangelize.
And if you invite him to dinner he won’t complain about the meal. He’ll clean his plate with appreciative grace. He says his personal preference for what he eats is just that – a personal preference, not a community crusade.

But I wonder if there isn’t more to this Way of Nude Food.
Watching his ongoing life I see something deeper at work.

He’s always dressed simply and plainly - in jeans, a T shirt, a fleece jacket, and plain brown leather go-anywhere slip-on shoes. Clean. Neat. Functional. And comfortable. Not a fashion statement.

He doesn’t have a cell phone – says he has enough trouble getting in touch with himself most of the time. No radio or TV – because he doesn’t like all the advertising for stuff he doesn’t need or want. He walks when he can, and drives used cars when he can’t – drives them until they die and he gets another one. He calls this practice, “thinning the herd.”

It’s not that he’s poor or into self-denial. He can afford to eat at fancy restaurants, and sometimes does – because, he says, he likes an evening of food theater. He sees menus as literature and entertainment, but not as reliable descriptions of what’s actually served. He likes surprises, and will sample anything once - because he says he is sometimes wrong about what’s good eating.

He’s not a social curmudgeon or recluse.
He spends his money on books, music, movies, and good causes, and goes to comedy clubs to keep his laughter muscles toned and active. Furthermore, he does have some nice dress-up clothes, which he wears on special occasions as costumes on the stage of the world.

He has nothing to sell you, no advice about how you should run your life.
He says he has enough trouble figuring out how to run his own.
He’s curious about what’s going on in the culture. I’ve seen him sample soy milk, green tea, fat-free anything, and energy drinks just to see what the fuss was about. And he has his own anomalies. His idea of a diet supplement is an occasional good cigar, a bar of dark chocolate, or gummi bears.

But it seems to me he has achieved a kind of balanced sanity.
But he’s neither a fool for fashion nor a cultural miscreant.
His Way of Nude Food is a sample of a Way of Life – his life – not mine or yours – which he calmly goes about without calling much attention to himself. Live and let live, he says, without disputing personal taste.

I admire him. Exemplars don’t always make a lot of noise about their Way.
I don’t agree with some of his ideas, but, then I don’t agree with some of my own ideas, either. It’s just that his Way makes such elegant obvious sense sometimes and mine so often seems ridiculous.

He might be surprised to know I watch him and learn from him.
He wouldn’t like it if I gave his name and address.
But he knows who he is.
And so do I.
And I thank him.

Does he really exist, you ask?
No, but I imagine that somewhere, someday, he might . . . .

Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Written Friedhay, April 24, 2009 - Warm, breezy, cloudy.

The pause since the last journal posting reflects a week away in New Mexico. A 5-star feast - art and crafts galleries, museums, Pueblo Indian and Spanish culture, southwestern cuisine, tango dancing, and the inspiring scenery of the great open spaces of the Four Corners Region as spring throws out a thin carpet of bright green on the vast, rusty landscape.
Yet, for all the richness of the week’s experience, what remains vivid in my memory is an encounter with silence. . . .

AN EPIPHANY – for Angelina, with gratitude . . .

It’s Santa Fe on a fine April afternoon. Not so fine is that I’m stuck in heavy traffic backed up at a congested intersection on Cerrillos Road . . . the wail of an oncoming ambulance siren from somewhere behind the jam . . . horns honking . . . a diesel truck rumbling beside me, spewing black smoke . . . .
Well, @$%#*!! Not what I came to Santa Fe for. This I can do at home.
My mind is a king-sized crouton – stale, dry, and brittle.

Across the street I notice an informal parade of young people - boys and girls - maybe twenty five or thirty of them. Mostly teenagers of various ages, sizes, and shapes. Dressed in the standard street uniform of the Teenage Tribe – jeans and sneakers and T-shirts and baseball caps on backwards.
A couple of adults follow along behind, carrying soccer balls.

Something special about this group holds my attention. What? For one thing, they’re very animated – hands and arms in rapid motion. Their faces are quite expressive as well. And they’re paying unusually close attention to one another. They don’t seem to notice the traffic or the horns or the oncoming ambulance. And they don’t seem to be concerned about spectators like me. They’re laughing and smiling and having a much better time than I am.

As they move past me they also move past a sign marking the entrance to the campus of an educational institution. The sign says:
NEW MEXICO SCHOOL FOR THE DEAF.
The students walk through the gate into what must be both school and a home-away-from home for them. Oh . . .
Each time I’ve visited Santa Fe over the years I’ve passed NMSFD on my way in and out of town. I know it’s a famous residential school for the hearing impaired. But I’ve never seen anyone out and about on the grounds. I’ve wondered what the students are like. And here they are - in high good spirits returning from an afternoon excursion to play ball somewhere.

From all the way across the street I sensed their vivacious energy.
It’s contagious. My spirits lift. My traffic troubles seem inconsequential.

While I wait out the jam, I begin to wonder if and how well I might communicate without using my voice. Though I don’t know ASL - formal sign language - perhaps I could talk less and say more.

The next morning, I decide to keep my mouth shut . . . to try communicating with my companion just by mime for awhile.  Soon we have a goodtime game going . . . we laugh . . . and realize that we’re paying attention to each other in a refreshing way - reading from each other’s faces and gestures what we often ignore or overlook.

In this foolish state, we waltz into Starbucks on Santa Fe’s historic Plaza, still communicating without words. Enter Goofy and his mate - flailing about with our hands and making elaborate facial expressions.

The barrista at the order counter points at me, then at the menu on the wall above her, raises her eyebrows. What do you want? She’s a Lovely Latina – long black hair, face too pretty to require any makeup, and charming smile.

Wonderful! I think. She’s a player! She’s in the game!
She must have picked up on my mime experiment as I approached.
So I wordlessly, flamboyantly, and clumsily mime my order:
Short latte . . . two shots . . . one medium black tea . . . to go.
(You’ll have to imagine my gyrations. Try it yourself.)

She smiles, nods, punches up my order on the computer and points at the total. I laugh. She laughs. I pay and move on toward the delivery station, pleased with our common cleverness. A new Starbuck’s special - coffee and tea with fun thrown in for flavor.

Looking back while waiting, I’m alarmed when I realize what I’ve done.
The barrista is attending to all her customers the same way she treated me.
She must be deaf for real. And I thought she was just fooling around.
Ohdeargod.
What must she think of my idiot act?
Maybe I should say something – at least apologize.

To make a long story short, Angelina is indeed deaf. And she’s been a Starbucks barrista for five years. She reads lips. And reads customers, too. The manager I spoke with said an apology wasn’t necessary - that nothing throws Angelina - not even the rudest or most confused or most peculiar customers – and there are always a few of each.

She has a lively sense of humor and, as I found out, suffers fools with grace. The manager added that her dignified courage inspires the rest of the staff – and often customers as well. And when customers do understand, they treat her with respect and admiration. The manager says that Starbucks has never regretted taking the chance on hiring her for such an intensive and responsible first-contact position with customers. In fact, Angelina is their ace barrista.

I watched her work the counter for awhile. So competent. So self-assured. She may not hear, but she has a certain kind of rare vision – the ability to see herself out in the world – up front – risking being fully engaged and included. There’s a noble kind of bravery in that.

She has something I often cannot quite muster – the tenacity to make my own handicaps work for me, not against me. There are many kinds of handicaps. Having a crouton for a mind sometimes . . . is mine.

Perhaps now you understand what I meant when I said that what remains vivid in my memory from that day in Santa Fe was silence. One woman’s attentive, vivacious, confident silence . . .

Thanks, Angelina. 

Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Written Friedhay, April 10, 2009
Warmer, cloudy, windy, dusty

FIXIT

Everyday life has its everlasting irritations. Say “Amen.”
And those burrs under the saddle can spoil the whole ride. Say “Amen.”
Still people just put up with the nuisance – too busy to fixit once and for all.

For example. Here in the high desert country it’s dry. How dry is it? So dry that people don’t take baths – they sit in a 55 gallon drum of oily lube first thing in the morning to soften their skin so it doesn’t crack when they move.
That dry. So dry that when you spit it never hits the ground – it just dries up in the air and disappears. That dry. So dry that the mucus in your nose cakes up and every time you breath you whistle through your nose. That dry. And so dry that lips don’t work if they aren’t greased regularly.

This means that one of the items that goes in your pocket or purse every day is lip lube – Chapstick or Bert’s Bee’s Wax. If you want to be able to talk all day and not have your lips crack and bleed, then you keep the lube handy.

However. “Where the hell did my chapstick go?” is a common cry. Answer:
Well, you left it in your jeans when you put them in the wash and the goo is gone. Or you dropped it when you got out of the car. Or you left it in your other coat. Or it’s under the bed. Or one of the sneaky creeps you live with lost theirs and took yours. Or who-knows-where-else? Damnit!

The point is that once again you haven’t got one handy and your lips are turning to raisins and you’re irritable as a cat with scabies. And you’re going to spend a half an hour looking for a tube and be even more pissed off because you can’t find it and you wasted all that time looking, and you’re going to end up putting salad oil on your lips in desperation. Bloody hell!

This is the situation about three days out of five. So you buy another chapstick. Just one. Fully knowing what’s going to happen to it. “Why does this happen to me?” The answer is: Me. And the next question is “Why don’t I just fixit once and for all?” Why not? Bygod I will.

Here’s the plan:
I’m going to buy a whole case of lip goop at one of the big-box stores over in Grand Junction. A gross. Twelve dozen. 144 tubes. And I’m going to put one every known place – bathroom, bedside, car, coats, on my desk, in my overalls and bathrobe. Even give a dozen to my companion. “Here, stop stealing.” And put the rest in plain sight on the kitchen counter. I swear I will not lose the pleasure of another lovely day over a tube of lip lube. Fixit.

And while I’m at it I’m going to buy a case of those little packages of Kleenex – the ones that you never can find when you need them – and put them all over everywhere, too. I’m tired of living a tacky life irritated by the mis-management of lip goop and nose fodder.

Maybe get a case of sunglasses, reading glasses, pens, and pencils, too.

Fixit, Fulghum, bygod, stop bitching and just Fixit!

Stay tuned.

Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Written Thursday, April 9, 2009
Warmer, cloudy, windy – snow melted, first flowers up and out

APRIL SNAPSHOTS FROM THE LAND OF MOAB
(Note: Try reading the weird parts of the following out loud.)

“Izzat whut ewe broosh yur teat width?”

Owlish little woman – fluffy grey hair, tiny beak of a nose, black-rimmed glasses – giving the impression that any moment she may turn her head 180 degrees and look behind her for prey.

We’re waiting in the City Market checkout line. She’s pointing at the magnum-sized Crest toothpaste carton in my shopping cart. This latest version of Crest has everything in it – mouthwash, fluoride, chlorine, whitener, tartar fighter, WD-40, suntan lotion, a laxative, caffeine, bacteria combatant, glitter, a few unpronounceable additives, and a fresh-fruit minty flavor. American ingenuity in a tube. WHAMO in your mouth. Yes!

(Where is this woman from, I wonder, with an accent like that? Australia, probably? All those people talk funny. They say they speak “Strain.” Maybe I should reply by shifting into my own native tongue - West Texas slow-speak.)

“Well, naw . . . m’am. Ah’m gonna spred it . . . on mah toest fur brakefuss . . ‘n squirt a shot . . . n mah kawfeee . . .grate stuff – cures athleets fut, jock itch, n hemorrhoidal complaints . . . N eye yused it wonce . . . to calk duh bathtub. Wurked, too. Not shur eye’d wanta put it two much uv it own m’teat, tho – day say it’ll shrink yur teat.”

“Ware eye cum from, we broosh or teat width biking sota.”
“Rilly?”
“Riley. D same kine we yous ta bike bred.”
“Rat own! Eye yuse sand . . . organic sand . . . to clin mah teat. N din eye jus tayk ‘em owt n . . . run a war broosh over’em to git d grit n chunks off’em.”
“Riley?”
“Yep, Rilly, wanna see mah teat – eye’ll tayk’em owt n sho yew.”
“Well . . . . eye . . . . “

Suddenly the owly lady swiveled her head around 180 degrees to see if her husband was still there behind her. A lumpish sunburned Aussie hulk who looked like he was concentrating on passing gas as silently as possible.
“D’yu wanta see’s teat?”
He smiled. “No. Tho mebbe we shud git sum of that teat pase he yuses.”

The owl snapped her head around at me and peered over her glasses.
“Oar ewe pullin m’leg? Ewe r, rn’t ewe?”
“Yes, ma’m, eye am. It’s my job to be colorful for the tourists.”
“Ewe ‘merrycans r as nutbuggers az Strains.”

I laughed. She laughed. Her husband farted. And we laughed some more.
The cashier just rolled her eyes and bagged up groceries.
Life in the Moab mad house in spring.

Our town is full of foreigners these days. Italians, Germans, French, Japanese, Koreans, Australians – just to name the nationalities I’ve encountered in the last week. They’ve come to see the American West and experience the culture. We intrigue and amuse them. They intrigue and amuse us. That’s a good thing.

Odd to be on the other end of the traveler’s visit to the circus of the world.
What are they doing here? The same thing I was doing there. Looking around, seeing the sights, getting some relief from the same-old-same-old at home. We go to Yurp to see their Gothic cathedrals and they come here to see our red-rock temple arches in natural rock. We go there to see their sandy beaches. They come here to see ancient beaches petrified into sandstone. The response is the same: Awe and wonder.

We go to see the natives. They come to see the natives. And we’re all us.
And sometimes we delight in crossing the moat to mingle with the creatures in the zoo and find reason to laugh about something as mundane as toothpaste – as common as brushing our teeth or passing gas. Rat own!

English may be a foreign language. Laughter is not.
(In Strain: Angish my be a forn langish. Laffter izz’nt.)

Pack Creek Ranch, San Juan County, Utah
Written Sunday, April 5, 2009
Cold, clear, still - 19 degrees at dawn – a foot of new snow on the ground.

EMERGENCY MEETING OF THE SECURITY COUNCIL

How do you think about what goes on in your mind?
My metaphor for mine is “The Committee” – a range of voices expressing a range of opinions – often as contradictory as consensual.
I’m not one person. I’m a group.

The intensity of the clamor is directly related to the matter at hand. The Security Council meets in special session. These, the most powerful members of The Committee, show up at short notice in an emergency.

And what was the crisis this time, you ask?
The Committee’s client, me, was standing staring out through the plate glass doors of my living room just at sunrise, watching the ongoing snowfall add to the accumulation of a foot of white overnight.

“How about running naked in the snow?”
The voice of the free-spirited eight-year-old boy – a permanent and vocal member of The Committee – the source of some fine-but-impractical ideas.
“Come on, let’s do it!”

Bingo! Flashing red lights, sirens, aaoooogha, aaooogha. Emergency alert.
The Security Council of Robert Fulghum’s brain is in immediate session.
The voices of sanity and safety are shouting all at once.
No, No, No!
The voice that defends loosey-goosey ideas will respond:

“It’s freeze-ass cold out there!”
So what, it’s easy to get warm inside again.
“What if he slips and falls down?”
So what? There’s a foot of soft snow to fall in.
“He’ll catch cold or pneumonia.”
No, that’s what his mother said, and she was a ding-dong and flat out wrong.
What will the neighbors think?
They’re all inside their houses too far away to see. They don’t care, anyhow.
Why would he want to do this in the first place?
It looks like harmless fun, and, besides, he’s never done it before.
“Has he lost his mind?
No. He’s had weirder ideas than this.
“Get real. The Security Council votes No.”

OK, Look, this is not winter snow. It’s spring snow. It’s April, not December. Wildflowers are pushing up under the snow. The yellow wands of willows and the greenings tips of the cottonwood are the waving banners of the oncoming parade of Life. And tomorrow the snow will melt down to bring the flowers and willows and cottonwoods up and out. And if he runs out naked into the snow his pulse will beat faster, his blood will flow, and he will laugh. He won’t be sorry if he does it, but he’ll be sorry if he doesn’t. He won’t be ashamed if he does – only ashamed if he doesn’t.

Meeting adjourned.

(Actually, the meeting of the Security Council only lasts a few moments – much less time than it takes to read this account. The decision is made just as quickly.)

“Come on, come on, COME ON!” cries the eight-year-old.
“Yes, I’m coming.”

So, then. If you had been passing close by, you would have seen the doors of my house suddenly flung open, seen a man throw off his old green bathrobe and plunge out with abandon into the fluffy white snow. Naked.

And you would have seen, right behind him, his beloved companion, fling off her dressing gown and join him. Naked.

And you would have heard them laughing, seen them throwing snow in all directions, and playing like they were very young at heart.
Which, for the time being, they were. 

The grumpy members of the Security Council went away defeated.
Once more overruled by the forces of foolish joy.

______________________

I’m a story teller.
Sometimes, I admit, I make things up to embellish a story.
And sometimes I tell the unvarnished truth just as it happens.
As is the case now. Besides, I had a witness.
And the tracks were still out there in the snow this morning.
Evidence of spring – outside – and inside.