Disclosure

I have chosen to photograph things as they are in their natural setting. I do not dig up a waterfall, for instance, drag it into the studio, position it carefully against a muslin backdrop, adjust the lighting and take the picture. I travel to the waterfall and take what nature gives me. Or wait until nature gives me something different, like an overcast sky, or fog. Waiting on fog is a tiresome thing unless you live in Washington state or England. I do not recommend waiting on fog. Waiting on clouds is taxing enough.

In this, I am envious of my studio colleagues with their lights and backdrops, and my artist chums who work with charcoal and oils and watercolors and take a clump of calla lilies and arrange them to their satisfaction before sketching and painting away—or who go into the wilds and paint the dogwood tree without the cars parked at the curb, without even the curb. I’m stuck with hydrangeas or day lilies growing against a whitewashed brick house, gawky and ungainly, waving in the breeze, with bright spots of sunshine in the background and nothing to do but bear it.

It takes a lot of looking to be able to see. So I troop around, looking for hydrangeas or day lilies to my liking. Making do. I don’t, after all, “take what nature gives me.” I find what I’m looking for. I search out pleasing arrangements—but make them as surely as my studio photographer and artist friends make theirs. I make them, not by snipping and placing, but by walking around, looking, waiting. By placing my tripod in unlikely positions and contorting my body into unbreathable twists. By zooming in with the lens, and blurring the background with the aperture, and stopping all movement with shutter speed. I control as much as I can to produce what I want. I look until I see a way of crafting an image I like.

I am very much crafting an image. I am not at all “taking what’s there.” I am taking what I like from what’s there, or using what’s there to create what I like. But, the selection, the cropping, the arrangement, the production, and the outcome are the result of the imposition of my will—my vision—upon the scene. I use the camera to make a picture that is pleasing to me, by how I place the camera amid the flowers, not how I place the flowers in the studio. And then I take it to the computer.

My computer is my darkroom. Ansel Adams said, “Good photographs are made, not taken” (or words to that effect). Adams was a fair enough photographer but he was an absolute master in the darkroom. Every photograph was a production, a creation, as much as a painting by Degas or Picasso. Adams worked hard to get the result he liked. So do I. My studio friends get a result they like. There you are. Different approaches. Satisfying results. Controlling what we can control all the way, because there aren’t many straight-up images—photographs—that are worth viewing. We fiddle with them all. I have a polarizing filter and a warming filter attached to my lens. I don’t take a straight-up photo. Even point and shoot cameras give you what they have been programed to think is a well-exposed image. Even point and shoot cameras make the best image their computer brain is capable of making.

The Fourth Week

Monday

It helps to go without expectation, just being open to what you find when you get there. There is no way to plan for some shots. Maybe the leaves are right, maybe not; maybe the sky is overcast, maybe not. Maybe it’s raining, maybe not… So much has to come together, you’ll make yourself crazy trying to get it all lined up and marching to your tune. We have to see what is there to know what to do about it. We can trust ourselves to figure out what to do in plenty of time to get it done.

Tuesday

There are small seasonal streams in the Smokies that depend on a wet spring for their brief existence, and do a wonderful job with the opportunity to do what all streams do. In their “stream-ness” they are one with all streams, everywhere. They are as “streamy” as it gets, and flow splashing and gurgling along their course, nourishing the mosses and ferns, trees and flowering plants—doing what is theirs to do—with all the passion and dedication of streams that last year-round, and come replete with names, and bridges, and swimming ropes. My hat’s off to these little wonders. They encourage me on when I encounter the Soul Killers: “So what? Who Cares? Why try? What’s the use? What difference will it make?” And they remind me to say, “I’m just going to do what I do best and see where it goes.”

Wednesday

It isn’t hard to find photos in the fall in North or South Carolina. It’s hard finding a place to park and a place to set your tripod. The rural roads have no shoulders and people, urban and rural, are funny about you walking through their yard and standing in their flowerbeds. Their dogs are even funnier. You are limited to public places with parking and no, No Trespassing signs. And you thought it was about having an expensive camera and several lens. We make the same mistake with everyone who comes our way. We look at them and fail to notice all they are dealing with—how the Cyclops in some present-day configuration is body-slamming them just for the fun of it, and laughing. John Watson’s words are worth carrying around, remembering, living out: “Be Kind; Everyone You Meet is Fighting a Hard Battle.”

Thursday

I always miss fall when it’s gone. I love finding photos everywhere, not having to look for them, not having to wait on them—but there is still something to complain about: Not enough camera time. That’s my complaint. Fall doesn’t last nearly long enough. If it only lasted as long as July and August! There should be some compensation for July and August! They last six months apiece. That’s a year total. Fall should last a year. Fall should last long enough that I begin to long for winter. Wish it would snow so I could shovel the driveway. That’s how long I want fall to last.

Something else to be big about—as though we need something else to be big about! We spend all our time granting concessions, making allowances, adjusting our stride to fit the terrain, accommodating, accommodating, accommodating… The turtles and the fishes, the deer and the Great Horned Owls have to do the same thing, but they don’t know they are doing it. It’s just, “Oh, well,” with them. They don’t sit around grousing about it. Not even the Ruffled Grouse grouses. Something’s wrong about that. Something else to grouse about. To be big about. To get over.

Friday

The toughest thing about photography is giving your eye something to see. You can’t take your eye somewhere without going with it. And a quiet day reading by the fire with a cup of coffee is out of the question. You want to do this and you want to do that. That conflicts with this. What are you going to do? Enter the agony! Bear the pain! The only people who live pain free lives immune to agony are dead. They may be upright, intact, 98.6 and breathing, but they have been dead for years past counting and are only waiting for the undertaker to make it official. If you are going to be alive, you have to live with the pain and agony—the reality—of “this” negating “that.” Mutually exclusive wants, wishes, options, choices and desires characterize being alive. You get this by giving up that. You get that by handing over this. Trade-offs are the price of being alive. When you are damned if you do and damned if you don’t, be damned and be done with it! Make a choice! Decide! Get the camera and give your eye something to see. Or sit with the book and read. It’s your life, live it—and bear the pain of your choices!

Saturday

Edward Hicks painted over a hundred versions of “The Peaceable Kingdom” between 1820 and his death in in 1849. That’s having to get it right—having to do it well. This is the primary distinction between the artist in both the practical arts and the fine arts and those who aspire to be artists by doodling around, owning all the props and wearing the costume.

A plumber is as much an artist in what he does as the painter or the poet is in what she does. What makes them all artists is the drive to do it well. My wife has never taken a landscape photograph in her life, but she has landscaped beautifully and well the yards of every house we’ve lived in.

Art is where your gift lies. Everyone is an artist who knows what gift she, he, has been given and lives to serve that gift, to bring it forth and do it well according to his or her own sense of perfection, no matter what the critics say—and the critics there be many whether they get paid to write reviews or snicker about your flowerbed as they walk down the street.

What do you have to do well? Who says when it’s done well? Joseph Campbell said, “If you can do something you love to do without fear of criticism, you will move. You will feel the joy in it. You don’t have to move more than an inch to feel the joy. Remember, the Buddha’s third temptation was duty, doing what people expect you to do. That’s the censorship fear.”

Live your art, express your gift, do your work—and do it well, according to your own sense of completion.

Sunday

The gift is a harsh task master, demanding everything in the service of the gift. And it is the giver of life and being. We serve the wonder that brings us to life, anoints us with life, calls us forth, directs our steps and forms the way we are in the world. It is the invisible source of vitality, joy, enthusiasm and delight. A blessing and a grace. Without it, we would be deader than dead. With it, we leave the dead to bury the dead, and press on, in service to the gift. May it always be so, with us all, forever!

The Third Week

Monday

There are no excuses for missing the photograph. Our job is to get the photograph. Not to be there five minutes late. Not to fumble with the equipment. Not to not-know how to use the camera. Not to forget to check the focus, and the exposure, and the composition. Anybody else can fail in these things—not photographers! We have to be there. We have to be ready. And we have to be competent in what we do.

Tuesday

Photographers see the picture, get the picture. That’s all there is to it. Not everyone can do that. Photographers can. We can depend on photographers to see the picture, get the picture. If you can’t do either of those things reliably, consistently, dependably, but are determined to, that counts. Call yourself a photographer and stick with the regimen. It’s only a matter of time until you see the picture, get the picture—reliably, consistently, dependably. You can already consider yourself a member of the guild. Determination is the price of admission.

Wednesday

It’s a nice foggy day outside, and there is ice on the pond. There are some pictures I will not take. I can get fog in April and August. I don’t have to go for fog in January and February. I know I should be more of a sport about these things, and volunteer to be miserable for the sake of the photo, but. There are lines to be drawn. You wouldn’t stand in traffic to get a photo. I wouldn’t stand in freezing fog.

Thursday

I want to take landscape photographs and write, and that entails traveling to the places I want to photograph, and presenting what I photograph and what I write to an audience, or to audiences. A virtual audience, as in the web or eBooks, will do. And, I want to make enough money to allow me to do those things, which includes buying the equipment required to do it, and affording the physical comfort that enables me to do it without particular hardship (I don’t want to camp out and spend a lot of time being cold, wet and hungry, for example). That’s the core. That’s central. Everything else, wife, home, the children and the grandchildren, movies, and relationships, Christmas and Thanksgiving, and the like, coalesce around the center. My work is to make central what is central. It takes a lot of juggling to stand at the center, to be who we are. It is called “Balancing the contradictions.”

Friday

Even the sun needs help from time to time. A sunset on the Sound would be nicely enhanced if a boat were to come sailing into the picture. So, we wait on a boat, hoping one comes along before the sun disappears. Photography is the fine art of waiting. Waiting on the children to get out of the waterfall. Waiting on a cloud to diffuse the sunlight. Waiting for the wind to diminish. Waiting on the fog to lift or roll in, for the rain to stop, or start. Waiting, waiting. Watching, watching. Some days it pays off nicely, helping us forget the days it doesn’t.

Saturday

The camera opens us up to places and closes us off to them. The blessing is the curse. Looking, seeing, we fail to simply be. We lose the gift of presence, the gift of being there, of being a part of the place, of belonging. We observe, and as observers, we hear, we touch, we taste, we smell, as a function, as an extension, of seeing. We gather, absorb, a sense of the place as an extension of seeing. But, we do not just sit with our backs against a tree and let the people with the cameras and the tripods bounce around from compositional vantage point to compositional vantage point. We do not just pick a spot, and sink into it, closing our eyes, perhaps, and opening ourselves to the wonder of being where we are. The camera is a harsh taskmaster. We have work to do. We are burning daylight. There is no time to waste. The moment waits for no one. We must take advantage of the opportunity. And, in so doing, we lose a different opportunity. If you are going to ride the ride, you have to pay the fare. Which ride is our ride? To what do we say yes, and no?

Sunday

I have a picture taken at Bright Angel Point on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon with my thumb holding my hat shielding the sun from the camera lens in the upper left corner of the picture. That’s what film did for us. Digital gives us an LCD screen and takes the guesswork out of image making. With film we could bracket all we wanted, thinking the thumb is nicely out of the picture, but NOT! A beautiful shot in a classic location lost to a wayward thumb! What do you do? I hold the photo up as a reminder to me and a lesson to others! Be awake! Pay attention! Check the edges! And, love yourselves anyway when you don’t! Sometimes, I can almost see the rest of the photo without being distracted by the thumb.

The Second Week

Monday

Our job, our work, is to trust our own magic—to trust what we do to have its own magic. Take the photograph! Let taking the photograph do its own work, work its own magic. Do your part, do what is yours to do, and disappear. Get out of the way. Trust the magic of doing your part, of doing what is yours to do, and see where it goes. That’s our work. Our work is doing our work and trusting our work to work its own magic in the world.

Tuesday

I’ve said “see where it goes” in the last two paragraphs. I’ll say it again. We are here to see where it goes. To live toward the best we can imagine and see where it goes. To trust our life to have its own innate sense of direction—to know more than we know—and see where it goes. Seeing where it goes is enjoying the ride. It is understanding that we are on an adventure, the likes of which we could never imagine or believe. We don’t know what’s coming, what will happen next, or what we will do about it. This is the wonder of being alive. We don’t know where it’s going. We have to live to see.

Wednesday

Part of the discipline of photography is being in the right place at the right time and doing right by the moment, by the scene, as it presents itself to us then and there. It’s called “getting the picture.” It is not enough to get an approximate picture, or a reasonable facsimile of the picture. Nothing less than The Picture will do. Our status as photographers depends upon the frequency with which we get The Picture. Once in a while will not do. We have to be more determined, committed, persistent and consistent than that.

Thursday

I would never take a photo trip if I listened to my feelings, and I would never take a photo if I didn’t. The word is discernment. I know when my feelings cannot be trusted because I’ve lived with them long enough to begin to understand where they come from. Scaring myself is what I do best. I can terrify myself with all the things that could happen if I leave home to take photos far away. I could talk myself into staying in bed for the rest of my life. Bad things happen to people when they get out of bed. I pulled a muscle once getting out of the recliner. See? We should never leave the recliner. And, those are the feelings we have to over-ride in order to get up and do what needs to be done–what needs us to do it. In order to know what that is, we have to listen to another type of feelings. We feel our way into knowing something that we don’t understand, into serving something we can’t comprehend. And, find ourselves doing what is supposed to be done.

Friday

We cannot just buy a camera and be a photographer. To be a photographer, we have to take pictures, consistently, dependably, reliably, whether we are in the mood for it or not. To be a photographer, we have to belong to the camera, we have to be owned by the light, we have no life of our own. Our life becomes photography. If you want to be a photographer, that’s one thing. If you want to own a camera for those occasions when you want to take a picture, that’s another. If you want to do anything well, it has to be your life.

Saturday

Photography is not an after-thought, an aside, something we do in addition to something else we do, like taking a trip, or having a picnic, or going with the kids to the park. We don’t bring the camera along “just in case.” Photography is an attitude, a mind-set, a way of life. We live to take photographs. Everything else is the aside.

Sunday

Our holy obligation—the categorical imperative for photographers—is to be there when the photograph is there. Which means being there long enough before the photograph is there to be ready for the photograph when it arrives. We are photographers in waiting. We wait for everything, through it all, the sun, the moon, the wind, the rain, and the tourists to get out of the way.

The First Week

Monday

Looking for photographs is the most soothing pursuit of my soul. I’m just looking. At this point, I’m not trying to arrange, prevent, manipulate, control, produce—that will come later when I have narrowed my search to this clump of crocuses and have to remove the dead leaf and the stick, and block the sunlight with my shadow. During the looking stage, I’m not struggling, wrestling, or grasping. I’m simply lost in the wonder of wondering, of looking, of being present to what is present with me, and no will to exert, only the capacity to reject or receive, and the thrill of being able to create a photograph out of the elements present in a particular scene. Photography is an escape that grounds me in the present experience of living, and opens me to the beauty of life and the joy of being alive.

Tuesday

I troll for photographs the way trawlers troll for Haddock. I wander through scenes with the nets out, hoping for a haul. I stalk photographs the way lions stalk antelope. I hope for photographs the way Peonies hope for the rain. This is my life. It is what I do. I can’t be nonchalant about it, lazy, indifferent. I can’t wait for the mood to strike me, for the weather to be right, for breakfast to be served.

Wednesday

The pictures are out there, but it takes some doing to find them. Even the pictures you just walk up on take some doing. You have to go out of your way to be where the pictures are, and remember to take a camera along. Finding pictures is work. Work that is difficult to defend, justify, explain, excuse, or understand–given the little that comes from it, even if you get a picture. Even if you get a really good picture. A big part of the work is doing it anyway, going out of your way and then getting out of the way. Remembering to get out of the way is hardest part. There is nothing easy about any of it.

Thursday

Photography is as much about deciding where you are going to be, and when you are going to be there, as it is about taking the photograph once you arrive. You can’t just show up somewhere whenever you feel like it and find a photograph. You have to be on the prowl for photographs like a cat after Robins. You have to think things through, plan it out, take all the variables into account, and hope that something will be there when you are. Then, of course, there are all those photographs you walk up on—the ones you stumble over—the ones that drop on you, like a piano, out of the sky. But, even those require some degree of planning. You have the camera with you, after all. You may be trolling for photos, not stalking them, but you are still trolling. You are still hoping one comes along, however deeply buried the hope may be. We’re always hoping one is waiting for us.

Friday

Speaking of waiting, sometimes, we have to wait it out. I waited two years for a photo of Price Lake at sunset to “develop” in the world of “normal, apparent, reality.” I knew it would be there eventually, when the clouds were in place and the wind wasn’t blowing. It’s only a matter of time, you know. All it takes is time. All in good time. Everything in its own time. Time will tell. So, if you don’t see it now, but know that under the right conditions you will see it, then wait, and watch. Eventually, if you are lucky, you’ll get the picture. Or, get the opportunity. While we wait, we can practice the skills required to take advantage of the opportunity when it rolls around. Photography is a wonderful exercise in seeing—what’s there, and what will be there—and a delightful way of sharing what is seen.

Saturday

I know a woman whose life—at this point in her life—is feeding birds. Who am I to tell her that she is wasting her time? I am here to tell you that my life is walking through the world taking photographs. Who are you to tell me that I should be serving meals at the soup kitchen and befriending the poor? My idea of what your life should be is very likely to have little to do with what your life should be. What should your life be? Who is to say? You are! But, don’t just make something up! Don’t just say anything! Be right about it! that’s the search for the Holy Grail! Being right about the life that is our life to live, and living it!

Sunday

Luck is strictly a matter of perspective. An event is propitious or malevolent depending on our point of view. What it is, is the coincidental confluence of circumstances. What it means is what we say it means in light of our purposes, desires, intentions and experience. If we didn’t have purposes, desires, intentions, or experience, we would never be lucky or unlucky. Whatever came our way would be just what came our way. What does a stature care about pigeons, or a flat rock about cows? So, luck is what we make it out to be. If we like what happens, we are lucky. If we don’t like it, we are unlucky.

Arnold Palmer, Gary Player, Ben Hogan, Samuel Goldwyn, and, well, the list is long, are all credited with saying “The more I practice (Or, The harder I work), the luckier I get.” Whomever said it first, the point is well taken. We can increase our chances of being published if we actually write something. The more we write, the better our chances, particularly if our writing improves with practice. The same thing can be said for selling photographs. We have a better chance of selling them if we take them. If we want to be hit by a train, it helps to stand on the tracks.

There is an idea afoot that doors open to those who are persistent, patient and prepared. It is generally voiced in a way which suggests that the open doors are a reward for persistence, patience, and preparation, as though something is directing the doors to open, and if we “pay your dues,” we will be accorded the splendor of success, the rapture of prosperity, and the satisfaction of having it made—with “invisible hands” helping us on our way.

Well. We increase our chances of catching fish by going fishing, by baiting the hook, and by fishing in places where fish live. That doesn’t mean “invisible hands” are putting fish on our stringer. If we keep doing what success requires, we are apt to be more or less successful over time. And, if we keep it up, we are apt to lose, more or less, everything we worked for. But, no one will say “invisible hands” caused the market to crash or our job to disappear. However, nothing is as fickle as those “invisible hands.” We can make ourselves quite crazy trying to arrange our life so as to receive the blessings those hands dispense—and avoid the curses they bestow.

I say, take your chances. Stop trying to develop a system for beating the house. Take what comes, do what you can with it, and don’t worry about amassing a fortune and having it made. What are you going to do with a fortune that you can’t begin to do right now? How “made” do you have to have it before you can start enjoying your life? Stop trying to please “invisible hands,” and do more of what you like to do and less of what you don’t like to do, and see where it goes.

Start living right now. What do you think life is about if not being alive? What do you need to be fully, vibrantly, joyfully alive? Upon what does your life depend? What is standing between you and being alive? What is assisting, encouraging, enabling your participation in, and experience of, your own life? We have one life to live. How long are we going to wait to get started?

The Land of the Critters

Once upon a time, in the long ago and far away, there was a land where the Critters lived. There were blue Critters, and red Critters. There were orange Critters and purple Critters. There were pink, green, and yellow Critters; pink-and-green Critters; green-and-yellow Critters; plaid Critters; pale Critters; striped, and splotched, and dotted Critters…

There were Critters of every hue, tint, and tone. And the assortment of colored Critters made for quite a view as they walked about and mingled and mixed—and in the jumble of Critters one thing would always be quite clear: no Critter ever looked like any of the other Critters. Except, of course, for one thing.

All of the Critters in the Land of the Critters were exactly, absolutely, unquestionably, precisely the same-sized Critters! The blue Critters and the red Critters; the orange Critters and the purple Critters; the pink, green, and yellow Critters; the pink-and-green Critters; the green-and-yellow Critters; the plaid Critters; the pale Critters; the striped, and splotched, and dotted Critters were all exquisitely, perfectly, identically shaped Critters.

It had always been that way in the Land of the Critters, and all of the Critters there loved it. In fact, it was a great source of pride for them. So much so, that they would gather in large crowds during certain times of the year to laugh and joke about the neighboring varmints and creatures (who were of every size and shape imaginable), and to congratulate themselves for being so exceptionally uniform in every way.

Their harmonious height and breadth was the subject of song and fable. It was said to be the source of all that was good and noble. It, supposedly, gave them superior physical ability and out-right personal charm; it (or so it was claimed) increased their intellectual powers far beyond those of anyone else in the known universe. It (they said) made them better poets, philosophers, farmers, and plumbers. It was thought to give them every advantage, as well as an over-all excellence in all things.

Thus, the neighboring varmints and creatures crept woefully about; and, trying to hide their obvious defections, stayed mostly in the deep shadows and dark places. They would cringe in shame when spotted by a Critter; and the Critter’s laughter would follow them as they hustled into hiding.

All of this, as you may have guessed, made things a lot of fun for the Critters, and not fun at all for the varmints and creatures. But one day, something happened to turn things around. It was unheard of in the annals of Critterdom. A Critter was born without the proper dimensions!

His parents, and grandparents, and brothers, and sisters, and everyone else as well were stunned. They were horrified that such a thing could happen to them. And, of course, they did all they possibly could to correct the situation.

They consulted physicians, and lawyers, and specialists in every field. They checked reference books and almanacs; talked to the wise ones of the Land; called in the wizards and the magicians. Nothing worked. They invoked the names of famous kings and queens; prayed the prayers; drank the potions; and repented of uncommitted sins. Nothing still worked. The Little Critter, as he was called, would not grow.

In all of this, the mood of the Critters changed from embarrassed silence, to whispered chagrin, to out-spoken condemnation, to violent outrage. NOTHING like THIS had EVER happened! NOTHING like THIS was SUPPOSED TO happen! It was an insult to them all! And they all insisted that something must be done.

After discussing the matter for a long time, it was decided that there was only one course to take—if they couldn’t make it un-happen, at least they could treat it as though it had never happened! And that’s exactly what they did. As soon as the Little Critter was old enough to take care of himself, everyone treated him as though he did not exist.

Of course, he existed for the varmints and creatures. They took great delight in the Little Critter, and would dash out from their hiding places at every opportunity to laugh and howl at him, and make him pay for all their years of misery at the hands of the rest of the Critters.

The outcome of all this was that the Little Critter didn’t have a friend in the world. He spent most of his time walking along the seashore, looking for shells, and throwing an occasional piece of driftwood into the water.

While the Little Critter was occupied with living out his life in this fashion, it happened again. In a manner of speaking. But, in a way, this time it was more unsettling than the first. It certainly had a far greater impact!

The story circulated out of the hills, across the farmlands, into the villages and hamlets, and through the streets of all the towns and cities until it was heard with terror by all of the Critters of the Land. One of their own kind, mind you, WOULDN’T STOP GROWING!!!

They tried everything all over again. Every remedy; and chant; and spell that anyone could remember, or imagine, or invent, was poured, uttered, and cast. Without effect. The Big Critter kept right on getting bigger.

Now, the nice thing about a too-little Critter is that you can ignore him, over-look him, pretend that he’s not around. You can walk right past him and go on with whatever business you are about. But what do you do with a much-too-large Critter? How do you ignore a huge, gigantic, tremendously-bigger-than-anything-you-have-ever-seen Critter? There is only one thing to do about a Critter fitting that description. You H-I-D-E!!!

And that’s just what all the Critters did. They HID! Quivering and shaking, behind the trees and rocks, in holes, and caves, and cellars, under beds, and blankets, and tables. Whenever the Big Critter came near (and you could always tell when he was near because the earth shook with every step he took) everyone would zip into hiding and stay there until long after he had gone.

The varmints and the creatures took special pleasure in seeing the Critters run for cover. To be sure, they continued to hide themselves—because the Big Critter was a terrifying sight to behold. But in the dim light of their hiding places they would grin at one another and enjoy the turn of events which placed them on an equal level with all the other Critters.

Since everyone had plenty of warning before his arrival, and since everyone hid upon his approach, the Big Critter never saw anyone. He thought he was all alone in the world—and spent his time wandering through the countryside, being lonely.

One day his wanderings took him to the seashore. As usual, everyone was watching for him and ran to hide when they felt his approach. As the Big Critter stood looking out to sea, he happened to glance down the beach and saw something moving. He could barely believe his eyes. He couldn’t remember ever seeing anything like it before.

It was, of course, the Little Critter. Since everyone ignored him, no one had mentioned the Big Critter to him. And since no one ever talked to him anyway, he didn’t stop to wonder where everybody was. He just ambled along the beach, head down, watching the sand, and the stones, and the water. Suddenly it got dark.

“That’s strange,” thought the Little Critter. “It was quite bright only a second ago.”

He looked around. Then he looked up. And up, and up, and up. All the way up to the top of the biggest Critter he had ever seen. He was so huge that he completely blocked out the sun. The Little Critter was amazed.

So was the Big Critter. He had never seen ANY Critter before, big OR little. Both Critters stood very still, soaking up the moment, looking at each other. All of the Critters in hiding looked too; and held their breath. The varmints and the creatures peeped cautiously out from their safe places. Everyone was watching, and waiting for the inevitable end of the Little Critter.

Suddenly the Big Critter sat down with a thud that shook the entire region, hit his head with the heel of his right hand, and said, “Wow! I thought I was all alone in this place!”

The Little Critter could not believe his ears. Here was a word! A true word—spoken directly to him! Without thinking, the Little Critter threw himself into the arms of the Big Critter, and, as if on cue, they both said, “At last! A friend!”

And they began to do what friends do at the beach. They built sand castles, and splashed in the water, and laughed a lot. The other Critters (and the varmints and the creatures) shifted around to get a better view, and, stretching and straining to catch every word, every move, they gradually left their hiding places. Soon everyone was standing, or sitting, right out in the open, watching.

When the Little Critter saw the crowd, he stood tall (he did seem larger, somehow), looked them all in the eye, and said, “Come meet my new friend!”

They came slowly at first, but with increasing speed they all gathered around the two wrong-sized Critters. And before anyone knew it, they were all laughing in the sun, playing in the sand, and competing with one another for the attention of the Big and Little Critter. Varmints, and creatures, and Critters all together, saying things like: “Gosh, you’re brave!” and, “Weren’t you scared?” and, “My goodness, you’re tall!” and, “Can I ride on your shoulders?”

Needless to say, the celebration lasted far into the night. And the next morning was the beginning of a brand new day in the Land of the Critters, a brand new day indeed.

The Dome

The Domes were built by the survivors of the Great War to enable the continuation of life on earth. They were large, air-tight, multi-level structures in which every square inch of space was utilized in the effort to support life. They were coated on the inside with a special sun-absorbent paint which made the domes extremely energy-efficient, but which also blocked out any sense of the outside world.

The Dome Dwellers had no regrets about that. The outside world was a place of horror, and it carried unimaginable threats to their existence. It represented far more than death to them, and they were quite willing to relinquish all reminders of their former life.

They adapted to life together in their Dome World. Protected from the dangerous levels of radioactivity on the outside, and surrounded by a safe and well-controlled atmosphere on the inside, they went about the business of surviving. The atmosphere was very well controlled.

Computers constantly monitored every facet of life in the domes. A highly trained cadre of Dome Guardians constantly monitored the computers, and quickly reacted to any difficulty reported on the screens.

This kind of stringent supervision was necessitated by the fact that life in the domes was a very delicately balanced affair—the slightest disruption could spell doom for everyone. All of the people had to carefully carry out their assigned tasks, and remain in their places, and obey the proclamations of the Guardians. They all understood the importance of doing what was expected of them.

After a few generations in this kind of environment, the people in the domes developed a very mechanistic mindset. They forgot about everything but the requirements of life in the domes. They went through the paces of living without ever lifting their eyes to see where they were going. They never wondered about anything; they never questioned the authority of the Guardians; they never complained or rejoiced. They simply survived, and gave their life to the maintenance of the domes which enabled their survival.

At least, almost everybody did. In one of the domes there was a girl who was different. Daphie White was driven by a strange compulsion to know things. It didn’t matter what. Anything. Everything.

Of course, it didn’t take her long to learn that questions were strictly forbidden in the domes, so she took her curiosity underground. She listened very closely to what was said, and left unsaid, about her.

And too, there was something in her background that nagged Daphie without end. Once, when her grandmother was still alive, Daphie had asked her about her name.

“What kind of name is ‘Daphie,’ Granny? Where did it come from?”

Daphie still remembered the distant look that came to her grandmother’s eyes, and the far-away, haunting sound to her voice when she replied, “I don’t know, child. Perhaps it came from the daffodils which covered the green hills before the War.”

The questions had poured from Daphie. “What are daffodils? What are green hills? What was it like before the War?” But she got nowhere. Granny quickly changed the subject and nothing more was said.

As she grew up, Daphie did her best to find out about daffodils, and green hills, and life on the planet before the War, but the information center in the dome had very little to offer in the matter. The androids which were responsible for her education were no help either, and the humans she consulted were either totally ignorant or too busy to be bothered. It was as though life before the domes had never existed. So, her questions remained unanswered in the backrooms of her mind.

But there were plenty of other questions in the front rooms. How many levels were there in the dome? Why didn’t people on one level ever mingle with the people on the other levels? Why did no one ever travel between the domes? Daphie was determined to get some answers.

And she began exploring her world. She would walk unnoticed behind the maintenance androids into the central shafts and follow them through the various levels of the dome. In that way she discovered the Computer Center, and watched the Guardians from behind a small air duct. She found the hydro-gardens, the solar generators, and the incinerator.

One day she decided to follow the shaft into the lowest level. She stepped out of the shaft and probed about in the semi-darkness for some sort of clue to the existence of it all. She found more than a clue.

She came up against a structure that was unlike anything she had ever encountered. It seemed to be a wall of some kind, but it was different from any of the other walls in her world. It had been covered with paint was very old, and had chipped and cracked in places.

Daphie got down on her hands and knees and scraped a large piece of paint. As she did, a strange kind of light shone through the opening. Her heart was racing with a mixture of fear and expectation as she leaned down to peer through the hole.

She was amazed and confounded at what she saw. She couldn’t make sense of any of it. She had never seen anything like it. Everything was so bright it hurt her eyes, and she had to squint through blurring tears. She was trying to bring it all into focus when she was yanked to her feet and whirled around.

“What are you doing here?” It was a Guardian.

The shock of her capture kept Daphie from making a sound. “Speak up!” demanded the Guardian. “Why are you on this level?”

Daphie shrugged and said nothing. “Very well, then,” said the Guardian, “come with me.”

“Wait!” said Daphie, “what is this?” She pointed to the wall.

“That is nothing that concerns you,” said the Guardian, pulling her away.

“No!” shouted Daphie, struggling in his grip. “It is too something that concerns me, and there is something on the other side—I saw it!”

“You’re wrong,” said the Guardian. “You saw nothing. There is nothing there.”

“There IS SO something there!” Daphie protested. “Look for yourself if you don’t believe me!”

The Guardian looked over his shoulder at the bright spot of light on the floor. Then he looked at Daphie. “I don’t see anything,” he said.

The Guardian forced Daphie with him to a room near the Computer Center where other Guardians sat in attendance. When they entered, one of the seated Guardians stood and spoke. “You are Daphie White,” he said. “We have had our eye on you for some time. You are getting to be a problem, and there is no room for problems here.”

“I haven’t done anything,” said Daphie. “You have no right to treat me like this.”

“You have done much, Daphie White,” said the Guardian. “Just now, you were caught at the base of the Dome. You were not on your level. This is a serious offense.”

“What are you afraid of?” asked Daphie. “What are you hiding? What do you want to keep me from finding out?”

“We must protect the Dome,” said the Guardian. “It is our task.” Then he asked, “What did you see?”

“I don’t know,” said Daphie. “It was too bright. But I saw something. I saw something outside the Dome.”

“No,” said the Guardian. “You are wrong. There is nothing outside the Dome. There is nothing besides the Dome. The Dome is all there is. The Dome is everything. We live in the Dome, and care for the Dome, and the Dome cares for us. The Dome gives us life and protects us throughout our lives. We serve the Dome and the Dome serves us. That is how it is and how it must always be.”

“That’s not right!” shouted Daphie. “There is something else! I saw it! I know!”

“There is nothing else,” said the Guardian. “There is nothing beyond the Dome. In the Dome there is life, apart from the Dome there is only death. And it is heresy to suggest otherwise.”

“But I know what I saw!” Daphie insisted. “Come with me and I will show you!”

“There is nothing to see,” said the Guardian. “And you must forget what you think you saw. The security of the Dome depends upon your being silent.”

“I will not forget,” said Daphie, “and I will not be silent!”

“Then we have no choice,” said the Guardian. And, before she could move, Daphie was securely pinned between two Guardians and injected with a drug that produced instantaneous unconsciousness. She was carried to an ejection chute which carried her through the various levels and deposited her through an air lock on the outside of the Dome.

“That’s too bad,” said on of the Guardians as they walked away from the chute, “do you think her parents will be much of a problem.”

“No,” came the reply, “They are good Dwellers. They will understand. Her poison could have infected the entire Dome, and the Dome must be served.”

“Yes,” said the first Guardian. “The Dome demands that those like her die for the sake of the Dome.”

Outside, Daphie slowly regained consciousness with the help of a damp cloth applied to her face. She opened her eyes, but quickly closed them and covered them with her hands.

“Don’t worry,” said a soft voice. “You’ll get used to sunlight soon.”

Then, other hands helped Daphie to her feet and led her through waving daffodils to the village in the green valley below.

The Magic Stick

One day, Michael Smith decided to go for a walk in the woods, but when he got there, he found that the woods had been cleared away to make room for a shopping center. All that was left of the beautiful forest was one scrubby, scraggly, skinned-up stick, standing in the midst of acres of freshly bulldozed earth.

“This is terrible,” said Michael. “All that’s left of the beautiful forest is this skinny stick.” And he gave it a disgusted kick.

“All right, that’s it!” said a voice that sounded as though it was coming from the stick. “That is the absolute end. I have had it with being shoved around! I’m not taking in any more!”

Michael Smith was undone. His world was wobbling out of orbit. He looked around trying to make sense of things, but there was no making sense of it. He looked at the stick. “Did you just say something?” he asked.

The stick was silent.

Michael raised his voice. “I said, did you say something?”

Not a word from the stick.

Michael walked closer to the stick and peered down at it. There was nothing special about it, except for its well-beaten appearance. It looked as though the road graders and bulldozers had been driving over it for weeks. Michael kicked it.

The stick didn’t move, but Michael did. End over end, with two loops and a one-and-a-half twist, and down on his rear in a cloud of dust. For a while, Michael just lay there, too stunned to move. Then he sat up slowly and looked over at the stick.

“I warned him,” the stick was saying. “I told him I was fed up.”

“Yes,” a voice answered from nowhere, “but you know the rules. You can’t let your feelings get the best of you. He found you, and you must treat him with the respect due a new master.”

“But he doesn’t respect me,” protested the stick.

“Never the less,” said the voice, “those are the rules.”

“Wait a second here,” said Michael. “Can somebody please tell me what is going on? I swear I hear voices, or have I just stepped over the line?”

“Apologize,” said the voice.

“What for?” asked Michael. “What have I done?”

“Not you,” said the voice.

“I’m sorry,” said the stick. “I shouldn’t have done that to you. You found me. I should have been more respectful, and kept my emotions under control.”

“That’s better,” said the voice.

“Look. If it’s not too much, I would really like to know what is happening here,” said Michael, picking himself up and walking to the stick.

“Oh, yes,” said the voice. “Well, it seems that you have stumbled upon a Magic Stick, sometimes called a Magic Wand, and it hasn’t taken too kindly to being found. It’s had a rough few weeks and is not in the best of spirits. It’s really not so bad once you get to know it.”

“But who are you?” asked Michael, “and why can’t I see you?”

“My name is Horace,” said Horace, “and you can’t see me because I’m invisible in this particular range of light frequencies.”

Michael sat there, trying to take it all in.

“You see,” said Horace, “I work with those in charge of overseeing the placement and practice of Magic Wands, or Sticks, Potions, Spells, Curses and Incantations. In the old days it wasn’t a problem, but with the population explosion, someone is constantly getting in trouble with magical paraphernalia. We are supposed to keep things straight.”

“You mean there really is such a thing as magic?” asked Michael.

“Why, certainly, my boy,” said Horace.

“And this thing is a Magic Stick?”

“Watch it, Bud,” said the stick.

“You watch it,” said Horace. “This lad is your new master. You must do whatever he says.”

“Is that true?” asked Michael. “Anything I say?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Horace. “All you have to do is pick up the stick, announce what you want to happen and wave it in the air. Anything you want is yours for the asking.”

“Is there any limit to the number of things I can ask for?” asked Michael, “you know, like getting only three wishes?”

“No limit whatsoever,” said Horace.

“And it’s mine forever?”

“For as long as you care to claim it.”

“Wow,” said Michael, grabbing up the stick. “I want the forest back, just as it was!” And he began to wave the stick in the air.

“Uh, not so fast there,” said Horace. “I’m afraid you can’t have the forest back.”

“What?” said Michael. “You said I could have anything I wanted.”

“You did say that,” said the stick. “Your very words.”

“Okay,” said Horace, “but I also said that I’m in charge of keeping things straight. Now, you can’t replace the forest because the contractor would just tear it up again; not to mention the local consternation it would cause. The government would get involved. There would be studies. Money spent. Resources and energy wasted. I can’t let you do it.”

“Then I’ll get rid of cancer and heart disease and all the illnesses there are,” said Michael, giving the stick a wave.

“Can’t do that either,” said the stick.

“What do you mean?”, said Michael.

“Sorry, again,” said Horace. “Too much rides on illness to get rid of it. Too many jobs, too many lives.”

“But illness takes lives,” said Michael.

“True enough,” said Horace, “but it also supports lives. Just think of the nurses and the doctors and the hospitals and the insurance companies that depend upon sick people for their own support. You can’t make things better for some without making things worse for others.”

“Well, just what can I do?” asked Michael.

“You could stir up a milk sake for yourself,” said the stick.

“What about ridding the world of war, and warts, and poison ivy, and mosquitoes?” asked Michael.

“Afraid not,” said Horace. “Things are so delicately balanced, these days. So inter-related, so interdependent, that it is difficult to do anything without undoing something else. And you must not tamper with the forces which hold life together.”

“What he’s saying,” said the stick, “is that you can’t do something that is good for some people without doing something that is bad for others. And doing something that is bad is against the rules.”

“Making any substantive changes,” said Horace, “would turn everything upside down. We would never get the mess in order.”

“But what good is a Magic Stick if you can’t do anything with it?” asked Michael.

“Well now,” said Horace, “they make excellent walking sticks for hiking.”

“And I’m good for conversation,” said the stick. “I’ve been around. We could talk. If you are going to change anything, I recommend starting with conversation that takes you to the heart of the matter.”

“Great idea,” said Horace. “I would like to be a part of something like that, myself.”

“And I will conjure up milkshakes for us all!” said Michael

The Little Engine Revisited

Chug-chugging and puff-puffing, the Little Engine rounded a bend and came upon a stalled train loaded with toys and food, sitting on a side track at the foot of a very high mountain.

“Deja vu!” said the Little Engine. The sight reminded her of the day she made her mark in the world of train lore. It had been a long time since that happened, but she remembered the occasion very clearly. She had rescued another train—very similar to this one—by pulling it over a mountain just in time to deliver its goods to the boys and girls waiting in the valley below.

It had been a hard pull, one that a less spirited engine would not have attempted. But she had put everything she had into it, and had succeeded largely because she was convinced she could do it.

“I think I can, I think I can,” she had whispered to herself all the way up the mountain side. And all the way down the other side, she sang out to herself, “I thought I could, I thought I could!” And the train behind her had cheered all the way into the station.

The story of her accomplishment spread through every rail yard in the country. From that point on, she was a celebrity-without-peer. She made appearances on all the talk shows; gave commencement addresses and led seminars on “The Importance of Clear Goals and Self-Determination.” She had written a book about her achievement and was the inspiration for several others. She was the role model of an entire nation, the perfect example of “What You Could Do If You Put Your Mind To It!” Mothers and fathers told their children the wonderful story of the Little Engine. Scientists and presidents, generals and executives, janitors and firemen all aspired to be just like her.

“We can end death and disease,” they said. “We can erase poverty; land people on the moon; obliterate injustice; stop war; halt the aging process; win the pennant; and invent a dripless faucet! We can do anything we want to, if we want to badly enough!

The Little Engine smiled as she reflected on the results of her efforts. She found great satisfaction in knowing that she had led so many people to the discovery of Truth. She was so proud of her achievement that she had “You Can If You Think You Can” stenciled in bold letters on both sides of her cab. And she was fond of closing her news conferences and lectures with the statement: “The only thing that limits us is our belief in our limitations.”

Now, here she was with another chance to show the world what believing in oneself could do. So, it was with a mixture of nostalgia and exhilaration that she pulled in front of the stranded train in order to hook up and pull it away.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” shouted the train.

“Why, I’m going to pull you over the mountain,” said the Little Engine.

“That isn’t necessary,” said the train. “I’ve already radioed ahead for a tow. But thanks for offering.”

The Little Engine was taken aback by this rejection of her offer to help. She could see her plans for renewed glory disintegrating on the spot. “Oh, come now,” she said, “you know it might be hours before the yard can send an engine to take you in. I’m already here. It would be silly to wait when we could be under way.”

“I don’t mean to sound harsh,” said the train, “but that is a very high mountain, and you are a very small engine. You’ll have a hard enough time just pulling your own weight over. I better wait for the tow.”

“Don’t worry about me!” said the Little Engine, “I wrote the book on handling high mountains! The only thing that limits us is our belief in our limitations. I’ll have you over in no time.”

With that, the Little Engine coupled into the train and started up the mountain. At first, the track ascended at a gradual slope and the going was easy. The Little Engine breezed along.

“What a lark!” she exclaimed. “What a wonderful time to be alive!” But the incline soon steepened, and the Little Engine was forced to concentrate all her energy on the task at hand.

“I think I can, I think I can,” she said to herself as the track rose in front of her. “I think I can, I think I can.”

The gradient became almost vertical, and the Little Engine was straining to the utmost. “I—think—I—can,” she gasped, “I—-think——I——–c—a—-n.” The Little Engine’s wheels made a final revolution, hesitated, and began rolling backwards with increasing speed.

“I thought I could,” said the Little Engine, “I thought I could, I thought I could,” all the way down to the bottom of the mountain.

“Whew,” she said, when she finally came to a stop. “That is quite a climb!”

“It certainly is,” agreed the train. “But the tow will be here shortly. We shouldn’t have long to wait.”

“Wait?” exclaimed the Little Engine. “I should say not! I’ll just get a faster start this time. After all, ‘You Can If You Think You Can!’”

As the Little Engine backed up for a running start, she mentally went through the Steps to Success, and focused carefully on each stage required to complete the climb. She visualized herself doing exactly what needed to be done, conjured up all the Positive Resolution she owned, and flew at the mountain.

“This time, I know I can,” she shouted. “I know I can, I know I can!” And she did do better. She made it beyond the high point of her first try by precisely seven and one-half inches.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she said when she felt her wheels stopping. “Oh—no—-you ——don’t. I——can——–d—–o——t—-h——i——–s.” And, with a mighty surge of self determination, she popped all her rivets, burst her boiler, cracked her cylinder head, and slid back down the mountain.

The train had never been in a situation like this and didn’t know what to say. They sat in embarrassed silence for a while, then he cleared his throat and asked, “Are you all right?”

The Little Engine didn’t answer. She sat stunned, shaking her head and stammering, “I thought I could, I thought I could. . .”

In time, the tow arrived from the rail yard and pulled both the train and the Little Engine over the mountain and into the station. There, the Little Engine was petted, and patted, and told not to worry.

“The mountain was too steep for you,” the other engines said. “You did more than any engine your size could expect to do. Don’t let this get you down.”

But it did get her down. She was given new rivets, a new boiler, and a new cylinder head, but the workmen could not replace her spirit. In spite of the best efforts of everyone, the Little Engine showed in interest in life. She stayed away from all the activities of the yard and sat off by her self repeating, “I thought I could, I thought I could.”

Her dejection finally became too much for her, and she went to see her doctor. “I feel terrible, Doctor,” she said. “I see no reason to go on with it. I don’t want to do anything any more. Can’t you give me something to make me feel better?”

“Pills can’t make the world any better than it is,” said her Doctor. “When the effects of the pills wear off, the world won’t have changed one bit. What you need, Little Engine, is an attitude adjustment. That will enable you to live with what you think can’t be lived with. But I can’t do that for you; you’ll have to do it for yourself.”

“But how, Doctor?” asked the Little Engine. “How can I do that?”

“By sitting with the problem long enough,” said the Doctor. “By looking at what you don’t want to live with and living with it anyway.”

“But I don’t want to do that!” said the Little Engine, “I want to be able to pull a big train over the high mountain!”

“Sorry,” said her Doctor. “You can’t have everything you want.”

“That’s not true!” said the Little Engine. “We can do anything we want if we want to badly enough! The only thing that limits us is our belief in our limitations! You can if you think you can!” And, with that, she steamed out of the Doctor’s office with tears in her eyes.

Her misery was more than she could bear. “It’s hopeless,” she said to herself. “There’s only one proper and fitting thing to do. I’ll end it all!”

With that, she chugged out of the round-house with a new-found purpose, and headed for Pufferbelly Plunge. When she arrived, she peered over the edge to the rocks below, backed up to get some momentum for the leap, took a deep breath and prepared to take the Plunge. But a voice stopped her dead in her tracks.

“What are you doing, Little Engine?”

The Little Engine turned around. It was the Chief Locomotive!

“Uh,” stammered the Little Engine, “Well, Sir, it’s just that I can’t see any point in going on with it.”

“And what brought this on, Little Engine,” asked the Chief.

“It’s because I can’t do what I want to do,” she said.

“Are you thinking about the time you blew up on the mountain?” asked the Chief.

“Yes,” said the Little Engine, “That’s when things started coming apart for me. I thought I could pull the train over the mountain, but I couldn’t. Yet, you can if you. . .”

“Think you can,” said the Chief, interrupting. “I believe I’ve heard that line before. And I don’t think it is a very accurate way of thinking, Little Engine. For instance, are you saying that you can go anywhere you want to go even if there are no tracks to take you?”

“Well, no,” said the Little Engine, “Of course, you couldn’t do that.”

“No matter how much you thought you could?” asked the Chief.

“No,” said the Little Engine, “Thinking you could wouldn’t count if there were no tracks.”

“Then we are limited by the tracks, right?” asked the Chief.

“Yes,” said the Little Engine, “We are limited by the tracks.”

“And not only by the tracks, Little Engine,” said the Chief, “There are plenty of things we can’t do. Come with me.”

The Little Engine followed the Chief Locomotive as he led her to the base of the High Mountain. “Here we are,” he said. “Now, Little Engine,” I want you to look at this mountain.”

“I recognize it, Sir,” said the Little Engine, “It ‘s the mountain I couldn’t climb.”

“I didn’t ask you if you recognized it,” said the Chief, “I only want you to look at it.”

“I am looking at it, Sir,” said the Little Engine.

“Look closer,” said the Chief. “Look at it until you SEE it, Little Engine.”

The Little Engine thought that was the most ridiculous bit of instruction she had ever received, but to pacify the Chief, she stared at the mountain. She lost track of time and had no idea how long she spent looking at the mountain, but suddenly, the mountain appeared before her and she was startled awake, gasping.

“MY GOODNESS!” she exclaimed. “That is one gigantic piece of granite! It would take an engine ten times my size to pull that grade!”

“It is much too steep for most locomotives,” said the Chief. “The engineers are working on a plan to tunnel through the mountain at several different places to create switchbacks inside the mountain to make traversing it’s height safer year round and possible during the winter when ice and snow close the track you’re looking at now.”

“What was I thinking,” mused the Little Engine. “I must have been out of my mind.”

“We jump for comforting illusions,” said the Chief. “But reality has a way of grounding us in the truth of the situation at hand. Invention, resourcefulness, and creativity carry us places where a good willing mind needs a hand to be helped along. We have to know what our limits are and how we might work with them to do what can be done about the way things are.”

“I hope I’m not pushing you too much here,” continued the Chief, “But it is important that you understand our ideas of the world either assist us, or inhibit us, in adapting ourselves to reality—and it is crucial that we not let our ideas regarding how things are become rigid and incapable of being expanded and enlarged by, or abandoned in light of, our ongoing experience. We have to allow our limits to limit us if we hope to get the good out of them. And steaming over Pufferbelly Plunge isn’t good for anything. What would you say to returning to the rail yard for an old fashioned train horn concert at the Roundhouse?”

The Little Engine smiled and said, “My horn can harmonize with the best of them!” And together, they steamed back to the Yard.

The Story of Wallace Boggs

Wallace Boggs wanted to fly. He wanted to fly more than anything in all the world. But there was one slight problem with his being able to realize his dream. Wallace Boggs was a 217 pound pig.

Now, you might think it is ridiculous for a 217 pound pig to want to fly, and, perhaps, it is. But Wallace Boggs didn’t think so. And he thought about it a lot. In fact, that’s all he ever thought about.

He would lie on his bristly back in the mud and watch the red birds and the robins flitting about, diving and soaring, and he would think about how wonderful it would be to dive and soar along with them.

“One day I’m going to fly like that,” he would say. His brothers and sisters would pause in their rooting and grunting long enough to snicker and snort.

“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” they would say.

“Pigs can’t fly, Wallace,” they would say.

“Isn’t he a riot?” they would say. And they would laugh among themselves as they turned back to their rooting and grunting.

Their laughter hurt, of course, but it didn’t change Wallace’s mind in the matter. In fact, it made him more determined to fly than ever.

“Just wait,” he would think to himself. “I’ll show them all! They’ll stop their laughing when I sail over their heads and climb up, up, and up, into the clouds, and do circles in the sky!” And he would smile as he imagined the surprise on their faces when they saw him swooping in loops and zooming by.

One day, as Wallace lay wondering how the birds did it, he watched a sparrow perched on an over-turned water trough in the barnyard. The bird pushed off the trough, spread its wings, and glided through the air.

“That’s it!” squealed Wallace, scrambling to his feet. “Why didn’t I notice it before? All you have to do is jump off something into the air!”

With that, Wallace ran to the upside-down water trough and climbed up. “Watch me, everybody!” he shouted. “I’m about to fly!”

And, as all the animals in the barnyard looked up from what they were doing, Wallace sprang into the air and landed with a loud “Splat!” into the mud.

The barnyard erupted in laughter. The animals rolled, and hooted, and gasped for breath. Wallace gasped for breath, as well. He was ashamed and shocked at his failure, but he didn’t lose heart, or give up. Again, he climbed onto the trough; again, he leaped into the air; again, he “splat landed” into the mud; and again, the animals roared with laughter.

Wallace spent the rest of the day climbing, jumping and splatting. The other animals soon tired of the show, and went back to their own affairs. But Wallace kept at it—with no success at all. That evening he wobbled on weary legs back to his wallow, and collapsed in an exhausted heap. The next morning he was at it again.

Only this time he climbed up onto the wooden rail fence that encircled the barnyard. “It’s only a matter of getting high enough for the air to catch me,” he reasoned.

And he jumped out for the air to catch him. The mud caught him instead.

Back up on the fence he went. Back into the air he went. Back into the mud he went. The cycle was repeated all day long. And the animals began to look at one another with concern etched on their faces. This wasn’t funny any longer. The next day it was even worse.

“Hey! Wallace is on the tractor shed!” Louise Wiggins, one of the chickens, called out to the other animals. They all flocked, herded, and packed to the shed.

“Wallace, what are you doing up there?” one of his brothers asked. “Wallace, please come down,” on of his sisters begged.

“Wallace, get back here on the ground this instant,” his mother demanded.

“Leave me alone!” Wallace shouted. “And get ready for the show of the century! I am about to FLY!”

With that, Wallace launched himself from the roof of the tractor shed (as gracefully as a pig can manage such things) and landed with a loud THUD in the middle of the mud.

“Uuuuuhhhhh!” said Wallace.

“Are you all right?” shouted the animals, gathering around him. “Are you hurt, Wallace?”

“Yes, I’m all right,” said Wallace struggling to his feet. “And, no, I’m not hurt. It’s just a matter of getting high enough, that’s all.”

“You get any higher, boy, and you’ll be flying with the angels,” said his father. “Now you cut this foolishness out, and get back to the wallow where you belong.”

“Not me,” said Wallace, “I’m going to fly.”

“Be reasonable, Wallace,” said his brothers and sisters. “Pigs don’t fly. Pigs can’t fly. Pigs aren’t meant to fly. Pigs just aren’t built for flying.”

But Wallace would not be reasonable. “I’m going to fly,” he said.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Mildred Pinkins, a jersey cow. “Why don’t we sneak you aboard Farmer Morgan’s crop duster? That way you could fly just like a bird.”

“That’s not flying!” said Wallace. “That’s riding in an airplane. Anyone can ride in an airplane. I am going to fly!”

“Don’t be pigheaded,” said his mother. “PIGS DON’T FLY!”

“I’m going to be the first,” said Wallace.

“You’re going to kill yourself, or one of us,” said the animals. “What would happen if you landed on us? How would we survive that?”

“I won’t land on you,” said Wallace, “but I am going to fly.”

“We can’t let you keep this up any longer, Wallace,” said his father. “This has gone far enough. It has to stop.”

With that, all the animals crowded around Wallace, forcing him toward the barn.

“Hey, what are you doing?” said Wallace. “Leave me alone! Stop pushing!”

“We are only doing what we think is good for you, Wallace,” said his mother. “We have your best interests at heart. We wouldn’t do this if it weren’t for your own safety.”

And, they pushed, and shoved, and pulled, and poked until they had locked Wallace securely behind the heavy doors of the barn.

“Let me out of here!” squealed Wallace.

“Not until you get that flying foolishness out of your system!” said his oldest brother. And they kept Wallace locked in the barn for a long time.

When they decided that he had been there long enough for the flying fever to have passed, they called out through the doors: “Wallace, we’ll let you out if you promise not to try to fly ever again.”

“Okay,” said Wallace. “I promise.”

The animals looked at each other with relief in their eyes, and opened the doors to the barn. No sooner had they removed the latch than Wallace bolted past them, sending several chickens, two goats, and a new colt sprawling.

“I promise not to try to fly until I get to the Jumping Tree!” yelled Wallace as he ran through the animals.

“Wallace! Come back here!” his parents called. But Wallace wasn’t going back. Wallace was going to the Jumping Tree as fast as he could go.

His time in the barn had been spent examining his theory of flying, and Wallace had made a few adjustments in his technique.

“Legs out, chin up, stomach in. If I do that, and jump from a great enough height, I’m bound to fly,” he reasoned. Now, he was running toward the highest thing on the farm.

The Jumping Tree was a big Willow that leaned out over the farm pond. Farmer Morgan’s children spent their summer afternoons climbing up into the tree, and jumping from it into the water. Now, Wallace was going to use it to jump into the air. And he did. He climbed as high up into the tree as a pig could go, and jumped into the air. And, landed in the water.

The splash knocked turtles off logs, and fish onto the bank, and the air right out of Wallace. He floated sputtering, and gasping to the top of the water, and clamored out of the pond just as the first group of animals arrived from the barnyard.

“There he is!” they shouted. “Get him! Get him! Don’t let him get away!”

But Wallace caught his breath, and had one more destination in mind. He headed for Indian Ridge.

Indian Ridge was the highest piece of ground in five counties. It overlooked the farm and the surrounding countryside. At one place on the ridge there was a cliff, which dropped straight down for five hundred feet.

“Surely, that will be high enough,” thought Wallace.

“Oh, he’s going to the Ridge!” shouted his mother when she saw Wallace leaving the pond. “Stop him! Somebody stop him!” But there was no stopping Wallace. He had a head start and a mission, and he out ran all of them to the place where he would fly, or else.

He walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the jagged rocks below. “Well, this is it,” he said. “Now it’s either fly or die—and if I can’t fly, I’d just as soon be dead.”

“No! Wallace, No!” shouted the animals as they climbed up the path toward him. “Don’t do it! Please, don’t do it!”

But Wallace backed up for a running start and took a deep breath.

Buster Grimes, Farmer Morgan’s golden lab, and the fastest animal on the farm, huffed up and placed himself between Wallace and the edge of the cliff. “Let’s talk about this, Wallace,” he wheezed.

“Get out of my way or go with me,” said Wallace, digging in for a running start.

“Sounds to me like you ought to do what he says,” said a voice from behind Wallace.

“What’s that?” said Buster

“I think you ought to get out of the way and let him get it over with,” came the answer.

“Who are you?” said Buster.

Wallace turned to see who was behind him, and stared into the face of the most beautiful sow he had ever seen.

“I’m Denise Riggins,” she said. “I’ve been hearing about a pig who thought he could fly, and, since I’ve never seen anyone that stupid, I decided I would come over and have a look. You don’t look stupid,” she said to Wallace, “in fact, you’re kind of cute.”

“I’m not stupid!” said Wallace. “And I’m going to fly.”

“That’s stupid,” said Denise. “Pigs don’t fly. Pigs wallow in the mud, and take long naps in the sun, eat corn-on-the-cob, and root in the dirt. But they don’t fly. However, I’m sure you’ve heard all this before, so maybe you should just jump, and get it out of your system.”

Wallace didn’t know what to say. He was suddenly very confused. He wanted to fly, but he also felt like he was falling in love, and thought that being with Denise just might be better than flying.

“Birds fly,” he stammered. “When birds fly it’s beautiful.”

“You’re right,” said Denise. “Birds are beautiful when they are doing what birds are built to do. And pigs are beautiful when they are doing what pigs are built to do. But pigs are stupid when they try to do what they have no business doing at all.”

“But I wanted to be a special pig,” said Wallace. “I wanted to do what no other pig had ever done.”

“Well,” said Denise, “you can do that without making a fool of yourself just by being who you are. After all, honey, there’s only one of you in the whole world.” And she winked at Wallace.

“But I wanted to fly,” he said.

“Sorry, Sweetie,” she said. “You can’t fly. And if you try to fly, you’ll never do any of the things you can do, and you’ll miss out on more than you can imagine.”

“Like what?” said Wallace.

“If you jump off that ledge, Handsome, you’ll never know,” said Denise, walking past him on her way down the Ridge.