THE FIRST WORD – Death by Rote - part 2 of 2

(Okay, where were we? I had just stood facing an audience of 200-plus schoolmates and teachers, frozen by fear, noteless and clueless as to how to begin my supposedly memorized speech. All I could come up with was a cold sweat, a couple of dry gulps, and the concluding paragraph of my speech.)

                      Humor is tragedy plus time. ~  MARK TWAIN

It took me many years to realize that feigning laryngitis was not the lesson I’d been meant to learn that day. The real lesson, in fact, ultimately came from what occurred just a minute or so after my fiasco.

The next speaker that day was a tall, gangly upperclassman named Todd. I remember him as a quiet, kind young man. (Though bad knees kept him from being very athletic in his school days, I found out years later that he’d become a world-class speed walker.)

Each time he paused to catch his breath, there was that little smile…a statement. 

As he walked past me to the lectern, he gave me a kind, understanding smile. How I envied him for that serenity. He stood up and faced the same audience I’d just disappointed so spectacularly.

But he knew the first words of his speech, the then-timely “Splendor in the Grass” ode by Wordsworth. His problem was that he couldn’t get those words out.

      

“Th-th-th…th-th-there was a t-t-t…” He tried again. “Th-there w-w-was a t-t-t-t…”
Todd’s demon was not his fear; it was the wire between his brain and his larynx. But he seemed to understand and accept his handicap. Trying to wring the words out contorted his face, but each time he paused to catch his breath, there was that little smile…a statement.

For Todd, this speech, even as he struggled with it, wasn’t the only thing in his world. After several agonizing minutes of trying, he stopped, took a deep breath, smiled broadly and said, with barely a hitch, “Sorry, I’m a little t-t-tongue-tied today.” Then he sat down.

Everyone in the auditorium sprang to their feet and cheered. I did too, even though I was still feeling so humiliated that I could barely see over my own shame.


A LIGHTNESS OF BEING
I can see it so clearly now; it was that slight smile, that nod of self-deprecation, that liberating touch of humor, that had allowed Todd to reclaim the audience I’d managed to let down. The malady—fear—that had brought me to my knees can’t touch people like Todd; they have the antidote.

Now I know there’s plenty of humor out there that’s funnier than this example. There’s humor of far more consequence, humor that helps people, at least temporarily, to put a new face on their pain and suffering. And there’s certainly humor that delivers more powerful messages.

That liberating touch of humor had allowed 
Todd to reclaim the audience I’d managed
to let down.

By those measures, what Todd did and said that day would hardly register on the scale. But it took no more than the sheer contrast between our two speeches nearly a half century ago—one a disaster, the other a triumph—to impress on me, indelibly, that humor is not nearly as much about the material as it is about a state of mind.

The power of that kind of humor, I decided, is nothing short of transcendent.

I can be funny—really funny; just ask my friends. But that doesn’t mean I have a great sense of humor. That’s because I take myself way too seriously. On the other hand, one can have a great sense of perspective on life, laugh off misfortune and smile at his own shortcomings, and still not be funny.

I guess I’d rather be the latter guy. A guy like Todd.

Humor is perspective. And it couldn’t be a more appropriate topic for a blog about new ways of looking at things. Neither the funny kind nor the lighthearted kind suffers tunnel vision kindly. Nor do they tolerate self-absorption.

On the contrary, humor separates you from what is happening to you. It recognizes that, whatever your misfortune might be, it can’t touch the essence of who you are.

Humor defends your boundary; it says, okay, you can make me sweat a little, but that essence, my core of certainty about who I am and what’s really important, is off limits. Have a nice day.

THE FIRST WORD – Death by Rote

(PART ONE OF TWO PARTS)

MURDER BY ROTE
Looking out at the audience—200 or so of my schoolmates and teachers—I tried not to make eye contact with anyone. My self-consciousness was reprieved, at least for a few minutes, by our standing for Men of Harlech, one of the traditional, “manly” songs we sang every day at morning assembly. Just another device for molding us preppies into proper young men.

Onward! 'tis the country needs us,
He is bravest, he who leads us
Honor's self now proudly heads us… 

About halfway through the rousing lyrics, the anxiety that had been resting a foot on my chest stepped on with both feet as I realized that my speech was coming up next on the program.

The anxiety that had been resting a foot on my 
chest stepped on with both feet...

The Smith Cup Competition involved speaking in front of an audience. First-round speeches, delivered to just your English teacher and ten or fifteen classmates, were mandatory for all students. Contestants could either write their own speeches or borrow something from literature, sports or entertainment; the point was it had to be memorized and delivered without notes.

My speech had survived the first round, and here I was in the semi-finals, along with two other contestants that day, about to speak in front of the whole school.

DEATH SENTENCE
The onset of fear is a fascinating experience. If it’s the kind you get to think about for a while, your vision—in fact, all your awareness—narrows. You lose sight of those around you; time grinds along in slow motion, counting down to your doom.

Even more distressing, your ability to place your situation into perspective vanishes. To say your predicament becomes the most important thing in the world would be an understatement; it’s the only thing.

That was my state of mind when the headmaster, Mr. Reed, introduced the first speaker. I tried to at least look like I was paying attention to my opponent, but the storm brewing in my psyche wasn’t about to be put off. The other kid’s words sounded like he was mumbling them down a very deep hole…and I was at the bottom.

I prayed something would come to me; it didn’t.

I’d watched helplessly as my state of mind had withered from concern to dread, and then to utter terror. I was now so consumed by my fear that, my God, I have no idea what the first—or any—words of my speech are! And—that’s right—I have no notes!

I could barely hear the applause for the first contestant above the shrieking of my panic. He bowed stiffly and sat down, turning to look at me, all self-satisfied, just as Mr. Reed stood and pronounced my death sentence: “And now, our second semi-finalist, Jeffrey Willius, will deliver his original speech, 'Water, Our Most Precious Resource.'”

My brain flailed for a clue to how my speech began, or for even something I could say off the cuff. About then, I would have settled for the ABC song if it, too, hadn’t eluded me. I walked as slowly to the lectern as I could without drawing any more attention to my plight (as if that were possible). I prayed something would come to me; it didn’t.

END OF THE END
Have you ever studied someone who’s terrified? There are several clues: the tortured body language, the pale, drawn expression, the copious sweating. But the biggest give-away is the Adam’s apple. Mine pumped in vain for the slightest trace of saliva, in syncopation, it seemed, with my pounding heartbeat.

So there I stood, in front of all my schoolmates and all my teachers. The floor was mine. I imagined 200 sets of drumming fingers, impatient sighs and, worst of all, guys turning to one another and whispering “What a loser!”

The good news was that I finally thought of something to say. The bad news? It was the very 
end of my speech.

The good news was that, after what seemed like a full minute of that sticky silence, I finally thought of something to say. The bad news? It was the very end of my speech.

“So, in conclusion, clean, potable water is…gulp…will be the central challenge of the coming century. What can I, what can all of us, do to make sure…”

At last, my ordeal came to an end…no beginning or middle, but at least an end. My friends and teachers were kind enough not to make light of the new record I’d set for the Smith Cup’s shortest speech. But sometimes even silence cuts deep.

(CLICK HERE FOR PART TWO)

WANT SALT ON YOUR FLIES? – A Resurrection to Savor

I cannot in good conscience take credit for this amazing little experiment. In fact, I don’t even know who does deserve the credit. Maybe it was some high school biology teacher...or for that matter, maybe a Nobel Laureate. All I know is that I witnessed it first-hand. Call it a cheap bar trick if you will, but don't try to tell me it wasn't a wonder of Nature!

I was working for a small advertising agency in Walpole, New Hampshire (the town that documentary filmmaker, Ken Burns, calls home). When my boss discovered that our biggest client was a fishing fanatic, he decided to take him on a fly-in salmon fishing trip to northern Maine. Trouble was, my boss didn’t know a dry fly from a Daredevle. But he knew I did, so there I was—after our narrow escape from crashing the float plane on take-off from Lake Sunapee—in a remote, rented lake cabin about 40 miles northeast of Mt. Katahdin.

Mount Katahdin from Millinocket Camp, by Frederic Church, 1895

As we were preparing our gear for the next morning’s outing, our French-Canadian bush pilot, Bernie St. Laurent, made us a bet. “See dis fly?” he asked, pointing to one of the dozen or so common black houseflies that shared the cabin with us. “Bet I can kill da ting and den bring ’im back ta life.”

The few beers already under our belts made us easy marks. “The hell you can!” my boss and I blurted, reaching for our wallets.

The show began on an impressive note with Bernie neatly grabbing one of the flies right out of the air with his hand. He plopped his palm down on top of a beer glass he’d filled three quarters full of water, trapping the fly. Then he carefully stuffed a paper napkin under his hand until its wet mass held his poor victim underwater with no escape.

After struggling for a while, the fly finally stopped moving. “You guys tell me when you tink he’s a goner, eh?” Bernie said. Just to be sure, we waited a couple more minutes before giving him the nod.

“Okay den,” he said as he removed the soggy napkin, the dead fly’s leg barbs still attached to it. With a toothpick, he carefully pried the corpse away and positioned it, upright, on the table. He reached for the saltshaker and began sprinkling the wet carcass.

Soon the pile of tiny translucent cubes completely covered the fly. Like any good con man, Bernie took advantage of the moment to sweeten the pot, goading us out of a few more bucks. Hey, how can you bet too much on a sure thing, right?

Bernie waited a bit longer and then began delicately plowing aside the salt with his toothpick. Soon all that was left was the last wet layer of crystals that clung directly to the body. Like a fly brain surgeon, he used the instrument to gently dislodge individual crystals.

It took several minutes, but finally he’d gotten just about all the salt off that he could. Then, with a wry, confident grin, he tapped the fly’s corpse with the flat end of the toothpick. On the fourth tap, the fly’s wings twitched. Then it shook its legs and began using them to scrape off the remaining salt.

In less than 20 seconds, the damn thing shook off the last of the salt and flew back to the window sill to tell his friends of his alien abduction.

We all agreed that Bernie had earned his money. Now, if only he’d had a way of sprinkling some of that magic on the salmon!

DOES A BEAR…? – A Warm Welcome Indeed

The wilderness is a great place to sharpen your senses. Obviously, being observant (and knowing your maps) helps insure safe, proper navigation. Once in a great while, awareness even turns out to be the key to survival. But most often, keeping your eyes, ears and other senses open just increases your enjoyment of being outdoors far from crowds, calls and cars.

Once in a great while, noticing one of Nature’s little gifts proves just plain hilarious.

There for the taking are sights, sounds and smells you likely won’t find anywhere else. The sunglow inside a red rock canyon, the mournful call of a loon across a northern lake, a whiff of white pine sap in an old-growth forest.

I'm used to thinking that Nature's to be beheld in silent reverence. But, once in a great while, noticing one of her little gifts proves just plain hilarious.

ALL THE COMFORTS
When my kids were in their twenties I took them on a fall canoe trip in northern Minnesota’s amazing Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BWCAW).

One cool, damp afternoon, after paddling and portaging our way through five or six lakes, we were ready to find a good campsite for the night. The map showed several possible spots within a short distance along the left bank of a narrow bay.

Keeping your eyes, ears and other senses open increases your enjoyment of being outdoors far from crowds, calls and cars.

The first campsite we came to looked unoccupied, so I got out to survey it out for the key amenities: a good, flat, root-free spot to pitch our tent, a well-made stone fire pit, enough dead and fallen trees for firewood, a good branch for hanging our food pack beyond the reach of bears, and, of course, a decent Forest-Service-built latrine.

Following the path back into the woods, I found the wooden “throne” to be in good shape. On the way back to the landing, I realized I hadn’t had a “pit stop” all afternoon. Still out of sight of the kids, I stepped off the path, unzipped and watered a large, rotting, moss- covered stump. It’s always nice to have a target.

My kids had already decided the campsite merited only about three stars. So we hopped back into the canoe and paddled a few hundred yards down the shore to the next campsite. Unfortunately this one, with its lumpy tent site and poor landing area, rated only two stars. It was getting late and we were feeling the chill. So, instead of going on to check out a third site, we opted for the far-from-ideal, though certainly adequate, first campsite, and paddled back.

STEAMY SCENE
While the kids put up the tent and unpacked their sleeping bags, I headed into the woods to collect some firewood. In no time, I had a nice double armload and headed back toward the campsite to build the fire.

That’s odd, I thought. Just ahead, next to the trail, I thought I saw a wisp of steam.

On the way, I connected once again with the latrine path. After a few steps, my happy whistling came to an abrupt stop. That’s odd, I thought. Just ahead, next to the trail, I thought I saw a wisp of steam. I slunk a few steps closer. Could it be the breath of a small animal, I asked myself. No, it didn’t come and go like breathing would.

Wait…this looks familiar. I recognized the stump I’d just used as a urinal fifteen minutes earlier. And there on top, in the very center, was a fist-sized pile of still-warm bear shit.

What do you do when a North American black bear acknowledges you in this most personal way? You can run. You can feel insulted. You can ignore it. Or, as I did, you can look around for a big brown-and-black face peeking out from behind a tree and smiling. And then you just laugh out loud.

TEARS FOR FEARS – One Kid's Favorite Halloween

BOO-O-O-O-O!

It says a lot about our way of life, don't you think, that we have to manufacture our own fear. Most of us, our lives free of any real threat, are fortunate to be able celebrate and have fun with fear each October. In that guise, fear lets us revisit childhood, when wonder would turn to horror and then to delight.

My wife's an elementary school teacher. Halloween is her favorite holiday. While her kids were growing up, she delighted in welcoming all the little mermaids, vampires, princesses and Jedi knights at the door of her spookily decorated suburban home. She'd remove the screen/ storm window panel of the outer door so she could pass the goodies right through to the eager little hands, bags and plastic pumpkins.

    The poor little guy lurched backward 
    as if someone had just yanked on a tether 
    tied around his shoulders.

 
I'm not sure Sally realized it, but taking out that panel from the door also served to frame her striking persona each time she swung open the inner door. You see, Sally was also a drama teacher, well versed in makeup. And she made herself into the most convincing witch you've ever seen. She built up her nose and chin into menacing juts, complete with grisly, hairy moles. She gave her skin that greenish, waxy cast, and wore a flowing, solid black gown and fantastic pointed hat. And then there was the voice.

One of her favorite stories from all those Halloweens is that of a little boy who could barely reach the doorbell. He was dressed as a snowman, realistically padded from head to toe. His parents waited for him at the foot of the driveway as he waddled up the seven concrete steps to the door.

Sally was concerned the moment he caught sight of her. The poor little guy lurched backward as if someone had just yanked on a tether tied around his shoulders. Sally quit her screechy witch voice to reassure him, but the damage was already done. "It's okay", she said, holding out the huge bowl of candy to him. He stepped back still further, now just a step away from the stairs behind him.

Sally realized it was no longer about fun, but saving the kid from real harm. So she did what anyone would do; she dropped the bowl and lunged forward, right through that large frame in the door, hands flailing, grasping for some of that white fleece and padding.

Frosty bounced three times before rolling to a stop at the feet of his parents, who'd sprinted up from the street.

He was fine, and he got his treat. But I guarantee you, that young man—by now a thirty-something—still talks about that Halloween.

May you have such a memorable Halloween!