Uh oh, p.13
Uh-Oh, page 13
My friend Willy is a serious fan of wonder-and-awe. Not cosmic wonder-and-awe, just ordinary, underfoot wonder-and-awe. We go running together every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He keeps me in touch with golf, baseball, medicine, and fathering small children—all of which I am either not into or already out of. We’re friends in no small part because he is one of the few people I can talk to about things like how many motors I own, and also because he can usually come up with something in the same class of deep human concern. This morning I shared my meditation on motors and power with him. He came back with balls.
He had noticed an accumulation of balls in the trunk of his car. A baseball, couple of golf balls, soccer ball, football, two marbles, plastic beachball (dead), a squash ball, a can of tennis balls, and a bowling ball. In his garage are balls for croquet. In his house he found Ping-Pong balls, a Wiffle ball, basketball, several ball bearings of unknown origin, a set of juggling balls, and five sizes of all-purpose play balls in the children’s rooms. And in his music collection, a recording of Jerry Lee Lewis singing “Great Balls of Fire.”
Round things. All his. Millions of active young American fathers must have a similar collection. This is democracy, the American Way, progress, plenty, and capitalism—the high-water mark of human history. All the balls you want. Cheap.
We ran about six blocks in silence considering this abundance of power and balls.
Then I asked him the what-if-you-went-back-in-history question.
No problem. Willy would go way, way back. Before balls and ball games. He’d teach people games to play with balls. He thinks it would change history.
“But, Willy, you don’t know how to make perfectly round objects or the materials used or pumps to blow them up.”
“No problem. Rocks. Pig bladders. Cow udders. Coconuts. Oranges. Melons.”
“But, Willy, none of those are perfectly round.”
“Well, we might have to change the rules a little at first, but it can be handled. More and better ball games earlier on would have changed history. If Moses had come down off the mountain with a set of golf clubs and a few round rocks instead of the Ten Commandments, the children of Israel would have had a better time. And I can’t imagine Columbus leaving town when the World Series was on. Or what would have happened if Columbus had been met by the real Washington Redskins ready to play any Sunday he was ready? Never mind the turkey and pie, let’s play some ball.”
As a parting gift when he was going out of the country for a sabbatical year to be a doctor in New Zealand, I gave Willy the ultimate Swiss Army knife. Fourteen blades, some with multiple functions—pliers, scissors, a saw, magnifying glass, fish scale, can opener, three screwdrivers, an awl, a punch, a chisel, and two cutting blades. Plus detachable tweezers, ballpoint pen, and toothpick. The knife came in a black leather case to wear on your belt. And that case had little compartments that contained a compass, safety pin, piece of string, a Band-Aid, piece of paper, two waterproof matches, a quarter, and two aspirin. Awesome. Willy asked me if he had to have a license to carry the thing around with him. Most people would have seen the gift as a portable tool kit to use to try to fix things with when the real tools weren’t handy. Not Willy.
For him it was a tool of the imagination. Each and every feature of the Swiss Army knife became the centerpiece of an adventure story of the amazing Roger Dodger, a ten-year-old boy whose ordinary life was turned into great adventure by the Swiss Army knife. He fell down a laundry chute one day into the Diamond Kingdom. Willy told the tale of peril and triumph to his two young children while traveling through New Zealand and Australia. In each episode, the hero used one of the parts of the Swiss Army knife kit to escape from danger and elude his evil pursuers. The surroundings of the moment wherever they happened to be traveling were the background of each story. Sometimes a story took days as Willy set his fairy-tale fishing hook deep in the minds of his children and reeled them around and around the great lake of mysterious adventure. His children will never forget the trip. One look at a Swiss Army knife and it all comes back.
This Swiss Army thing intrigues me. Maybe it’s because we can identify with an army that never goes to war and never takes sides and minds its own business. There’s something civilized about a GI knife that includes a corkscrew to open wine bottles with. A Swiss Army watch is on the market now, and a Swiss Army parka on the way.
I’m told Tiffany’s sells a sterling silver and 18-karat gold version of the standard Swiss Army penknife.
My friend Willy and I were running along one morning and got to speculating on how we might get in on the Swiss Army mania. We came up with Swiss Army underpants for men. Black, so they won’t get dyed pink in the home wash, something that has happened to the white briefs belonging to both of us. Besides, black is sexy and macho, something Willy and I aspire to be, especially if all we had to do was wear the right shorts. The Swiss Army underpants would have to have a red-and-white trim stripe around the top and legs so that you could whip off your trousers to go swimming and people would think you had on a bathing suit. This is in the Swiss Army tradition of multiple uses for an item. Also in the Swiss Army tradition is durability. Stainless steel is a little heavy for underpants, so ours would be woven of ballistic-quality nylon for strength, cashmere wool for warmth, and silk for sexiness. There would be an inner lining of reflective Mylar so you could use your underpants as a solar cooker or to reflect light to signal for help if you were stranded.
Inside the waistband, we’d sew some emergency information. Like the order of what beats what in a poker game. Because most guys can’t remember if a flush beats a straight and which one of those beats three-of-a-kind. This way you could just check your drawers and you’d know and wouldn’t look stupid for thinking you won but didn’t.
Most guys could use a place in the waistband of their underpants to write their Social Security number on, and maybe their car license, and their office fax number. There ought to be room to write in their wedding anniversary and a few birthdays.
And these Swiss Army underpants ought to look so good and be so indestructible that a man would never ever have to worry about his mother’s warning to always wear clean underwear in case he was in an accident and had to go to the emergency room at the hospital. The doctors would start cutting your clothes off you, and someone would say, “Wow, this guy’s wearing Swiss Army underpants!” Nothing but the best of care for you.
My friend Willy reminds me of a juggler who came to our church one Christmas Eve for the midnight service. I wanted to read an old story from long ago about a wandering juggler who happened into a monastery in deep winter and asked for refuge. You may know this story. If memory serves me well, I think it’s a French tale called “Our Lady’s Juggler.”
The story says that the monks were busy making gifts to lay before the high altar of the monastery chapel in honor of the Virgin Mary. Because if she was pleased, her statue would shed a tear of compassion for humanity. But when the gifts were presented at the Feast of the Nativity, the statue did not respond. In the middle of the night, the juggler, who thought he had no gift to give, went in alone and juggled before the statue—and juggled to the very limit of his capacity. To make a long story short, the statue of the Virgin Mary shed a tear—and the baby Jesus in her arms smiled—because the juggler had given everything he had, holding back nothing in his generosity. So goes the story.
To bring the story to life, I wanted to have a real juggler perform for the congregation first, and then I’d tell the story and turn it into my Christmas sermon. A little show-business pizzazz for the midnight service.
When time for the service came, the juggler had not arrived. Not until the middle of the second carol did I see him working his way up the crowded side aisle. But no costume. I had specifically asked him to wear his jester outfit. And no juggling equipment, either. What a disappointment. So much for magic at midnight.
While the congregation headed into the last verse of “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” the juggler and I held a whispered conference. His car had been stolen, with all his possessions and equipment. But not to worry. A friend had brought him and would take him home afterward. In the meantime, he had an idea. All I had to do was tell the fairy story, and he, the juggler, would take it from there.
No time to argue. The carol was done, and the service had to go on. I assumed that when it came time for his performance, the juggler would explain his circumstances and use some things he had found in the church kitchen for a short act. Reasonable enough. However, Christmas Eve is not a time for reasonableness. I ought to know that by now.
So I read the story.
And the juggler stepped into the light from out of the congregation. Slim young man, the wiry, athletic kind. Black tennis shoes, jeans, green turtleneck shirt. Solemn expression and freckles on his face in place of the expected makeup. Longish brown hair. Nothing special to look at. And no tools of his trade.
He smiled. And began his routine. In fact, he went through his entire routine just as if he had brought balls and clubs and knives and scarves with him. We had all seen enough juggling to know what was going on. And in each part of the routine, he went one step further than he had ever juggled and we had ever seen. Seven balls is supposed to be the limit for the very best professional juggler. Our guy did eight, and we knew it when he did it and applauded the moment of triumph. On through twelve silk scarves in the air at once and seven knives, and we even knew when he set his torches on fire and got eight torches in the air all at once and caught them without burning himself. We laughed and shouted encouragement and applauded this remarkable performance. We couldn’t see it, but we believed it. We gave him a standing ovation. On Christmas Eve in church—a standing ovation. He held up his hand for silence, and the congregation sat down. The juggler wasn’t through. He was going to do an encore.
He started juggling things we couldn’t quite recognize. What’s this? Chickens? Birds? Some kind of tree. Rings. One off of each finger. Five? Five gold rings. Got it! “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” He was going to juggle one of everything in the Twelve Days. The partridge, the pear tree, and all the rest. Impossible. But he was doing it. A swan. A goose and an egg. I was thinking, He will never get the maid and the cow off the ground, but with a great heaving effort, he did it. After that, the leaping lady and the dancing lord and the drum with drummer were a piece of cake. Every gift was in the air—way, way up in the air, because this was a lot of stuff. And as each piece came around, we knew what it was and shouted out its name as he caught it and threw it back into the air again. Fantastic! Nobody had ever done this before. The juggler was laughing. The congregation cheered like a crowd at a championship game when a last-minute score won it for the home team. The juggler suddenly clapped his hands loudly and stood still. One finger in front of his lips called for silence. And silence came.
We stood looking at him and he at us. In the most powerful and meaningful moment of quiet I’ve witnessed at Christmas Eve. The sermon was supposed to follow the juggler. And it did. But it was not I who spoke. We were all addressed by a sermon of eloquent instructive silence. The silence in which we absorbed the power of the vision we had of the impossible event we had wished into being. The silence in which we thought about our capacity to realize things we can sometimes only imagine. Some of the most wonderful things have to be believed to be seen. Like flying reindeer and angels. Like peace on earth, goodwill, hope, and joy. Real because they can be imagined into being. Christmas is not a date on a calendar but a state of mind.
Someone—I don’t know who—began to sing “Silent Night.” As was our tradition, people on the first row lit their small candles from the big candle on the altar, and then passed the flame on to the candles of those in rows behind them. The church filled with light. And we filed out of the church singing into the night and went home, taking our light with us.
OVER THE LAST COUPLE OF YEARS I HAVE BEEN A frequent guest in schools; most often invited by kindergartens and colleges. The environments differ only in scale. In the beginners’ classroom and on university campuses the same opportunities and facilities exist. Tools for reading and writing are there—words and numbers; areas devoted to scientific experiment—labs and work boxes; and those things necessary for the arts—paint, music, costumes, room to dance—likewise present and available. In kindergarten, however, the resources are in one room, with access for all. In college, the resources are in separate buildings, with limited availability. But the most apparent difference is in the self-image of the students.
Ask a kindergarten class, “How many of you can draw?” and all hands shoot up. Yes, of course we can draw—all of us. What can you draw? Anything! How about a dog eating a fire truck in a jungle? Sure! How big you want it?
How many of you can sing? All hands. Of course we sing! What can you sing? Anything! What if you don’t know the words? No problem, we make them up. Let’s sing! Now? Why not!
How many of you dance? Unanimous again. What kind of music do you like to dance to? Any kind! Let’s dance! Now? Sure, why not?
Do you like to act in plays? Yes! Do you play musical instruments? Yes! Do you write poetry? Yes! Can you read and write and count? Yes! We’re learning that stuff now.
Their answer is Yes! Over and over again, Yes! The children are confident in spirit, infinite in resources, and eager to learn. Everything is still possible.
Try those same questions on a college audience. A small percentage of the students will raise their hands when asked if they draw or dance or sing or paint or act or play an instrument. Not infrequently, those who do raise their hands will want to qualify their response with their limitations: “I only play piano, I only draw horses, I only dance to rock and roll, I only sing in the shower.”
When asked why the limitations, college students answer that they do not have talent, are not majoring in the subject, or have not done any of these things since about third grade, or worse, that they are embarrassed for others to see them sing or dance or act. You can imagine the response to the same questions asked of an older audience. The answer: No, none of the above.
What went wrong between kindergarten and college?
What happened to YES! of course I can?
On the occasion of his graduation from engineering college last June (cum laude, thank you very much), I gave my number-two son a gift of a “possibles bag.”
The frontiersmen who first entered the American West were a long way from the resources of civilization for long periods of time. No matter what gear and supplies they started out with, they knew that sooner or later these would run out and they would have to rely on essentials.
These essentials they called their “possibles”—with these items they could survive, even prevail, against all odds. In a small leather bag strung around their necks they carried a brass case containing flint and steel and tinder to make fire. A knife on their belts, powder and shot, and a gun completed their possibles.
Many survived even when all these items were lost or stolen.
Because their real possibles were contained in a skin bag carried just behind their eyeballs. The lore of the wilderness won by experience, imagination, courage, dreams, and self-confidence. These were the essentials that armed them when all else failed.
I gave my son a replica of the frontiersmen’s possibles bag to remind him of this attitude. In a sheepskin sack I placed flint and steel and tinder, that he might make his own fire when necessary; a Swiss Army knife—the biggest one with the most tools; a small lacquer box that contained a wishbone I saved from a Thanksgiving turkey—for luck; a small velvet pouch containing a tiny bronze statue of Buddha; a Cuban cigar in an aluminum tube; and a miniature bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey in case he wants to bite a snake or vice versa. Invisible in the possibles bag were his father’s hopes and his father’s blessing. The idea of the possibles bag was the real gift. He will add his own possibles to what I’ve given him.
His engineering degree simply attests that he has come back home from an adventure in the great wilderness of science. He has claimed a clearing in the woods as his own.
The sheepskin sack is to remind him that the possibles bag inside his head is what took him there, brought him back, and will send him forth with confidence again and again and yet again, in that spirit of “Yes, I can!”
I invite you now to a commencement occasion. A high school graduation ceremony. Very much like your own, differing only in the details of time and place, not content or importance. This one is at the Grand County High School in the town of Moab, in southeastern Utah. Month of May, 1990. Outdoors. As evening falls on a day at the edge of high summer. The dusty wind has blown all day, as it has blown here for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. But as the sun drops behind the great sandstone ridge west of town at exactly 8:15 P.M., the wind dies and three beats from the bass drum of the school band set the procession of the red-and-white-gowned class of 1990 in motion. Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance march, named out of a speech of farewell in Othello, spills its solemn dignity over this scene of passage. As the last senior mounts the stage steps, an invisible door as solid as that in the vault of the First National Bank swings softly shut behind them, locking high school away for them in the safe-deposit box of memory. They do not know this. Not now.
