osc sea, ron wer venns, T have set myself the task of writing a personal statement of beli Credo. When I was younger, the statement ran for many pages, trying to cover every base, with no loose ends. It sounded like a Supreme Court brief, as if words could resolve all conflicts about the meaning of existence. The Credo has grown shorter in recent years— sometimes cynical, sometimes comical, sometimes bland—but I keep working at it. Recently I set out to get the statement of personal belief down to one page in simple terms, fully understanding the naive idealism that implied. The inspiration for brevity came to me at a gasoline station. I managed to fill an old car’s tank with super- deluxe high-octane go-juice. My old hoopy couldn’t handle it and got the willies—kept sputtering out at intersections and belching going downhill. I under-ROBERT FULGHUM: stood. My mind and my spirit get like that from time to time. Too much high-content information, and / get the existential willies—keep sputtering out at intersec- tions where life choices must be made and I either know too much or not enough. The examined life is no Pienic. realized then that I already know most of what's necessary to live a meaningful life—that it isn’t all that complicated. know it. And have known it for a long, Jong time. Living it—well, that’s another mat- ter, yes? Here’s my Credo: ALL IREALLY NEED To KNOW about how to live and what to do and how to be I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate-schoo! mountain, but there in the sandpile at Sunday School. These are the things I learned: Share everything. Play fair. Don’t hit people. ut things back where you found them. Clean up your own mess. Don’t take things that aren’t yours. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat. Flush. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. Live a balanced life—learn some and think some ‘ [ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW ‘and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some. ‘Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out into the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands, and stick together. Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that. Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup—they all die. So do we. ‘And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you leaned—the biggest word of all— LOOK. Everything you need to know is in there some- where. ‘The Golden Rule and love and basic sanita- tion, Ecology and politics and equality and sane living. ‘Take any one of those items and extrapolate it into sophisticated adult terms and apply it to your family life or your work or your government or your world and it holds true and clear and firm. Think what a better world it would be if we all—the whole world— had cookies and milk about three o'clock every after- noon and then lay down with our blankies for a nap. Or if all governments had as a basic policy to always putROBERT FULGHUM things back where they found them and to clean up their own mess. And itis still true, no matter how old you are—when You go out into the world, it is best to hold hands and stick together.Drscxccsancs or ie aosony at our house ike my ‘work. It gives me a sense of accomplishment, And a feeling of involvement with the rest of the family, in away. And time alone in the back room, without the rest of the family, which is also nice, sometimes. like sorting the clothes—lights, darks, in-betweens. Dike setting the dials—hot, cold, rinse, time, heat. ‘These are choices I can understand and make with decisive skill. I still haven't figured out the new stereo, ‘but washers and dryers I can handle. The bell dings —you pull out the warm, fluffy clothes, take them ‘o-the dining-room table, sort and fold them into neat piles. T especially like it when there’s lots of static electricity, and you can hang socks all over your body ‘and they will stick there. (My wife caught me doing this ‘Once and gave me THAT LOOK. You can’ talways explain everything you do to everybody, you know.) ‘When I'm finished, I have a sense of accomiplish-ROBERT FULGHUM T FULGHUM [ALL REALLY NEED TO KNOW Fe xtow I haven't spent a Saturday night in the laun- at since I was in college. What you miss by not ig to Iaundromats anymore are things like secing her people's clothes and overhearing conversations sd never hear anywhere else. I watched an old lady st alot of sexy black underwear and wondered if ment. A sense of competence. I am good at doin; laundry. At least that. And it’s a religious epee you know. Water, earth, fie—polarities of wet and ‘dry, hot and cold, dirty and clean. The great cycles— round and round—beginning and end—Alpha and ‘Omega, amen. 1am in touch with the orrar SOMETHING. ‘onotuer. For a moment, at least, life is tidy and has (pba hers or not. And heard a college kid explain to Eitriend how to get puke off a suede jacket. ing there waiting, I contemplated the detergent " T use Cheer. I like the idea of a happy wash. i there ate at night, leaning against the dryer for mih, eating a little cheese and crackers and drink- meaning. But then, again The washing machine died last week. Guess I overloaded it with towels. And the load got all lumped up on one side during the spin eycle. So it did this nowt herky-jerky, lurching dance across the floor and blew iself up, Though it was coming forme. One i 4g. little white wine ‘out of the thermos (/ came mint i wae tvng thing nthe hoes ofa seize, piper) 1 got to brooding about the meaning of life an the next mint cl white box full of partially JB and started reading the stuff on the Cheer box. Amaz Sead oa wih end ou ce nen comes men ar He fle mah re oo, ne ‘vas elderly folks ina nursing home wh foto ae ee cle ois na ‘ofollow one another jf-Godium silicate) and improve processing (sodium |, so closely are they entwined. -sulfate), small quantities of stuff to reduce wrinkling tw a as Saturday aftemoon, and all the towels in the jfetand prevent fabric yellowing, plus whiteners, colori (0 Kidding. All this for less than a nickel s best in cold house were wet, and all my shorts and socks were wet, a perfume. Ni of thee veoait meee fan wet that if you want one #8 arr ounce. It’s biodegradable and work thisty nic hows seaight you ave to stay home for {fe water—ecologically sound. A miracle in a box. by witha conted check or ve your banker standing Sitting there watching the laundry go around in the your property, and T haven't se they won't set foot on Bayer, T thought about the round world and hygiene: ae eat a got time for that. So it’s _We've made a lot of progress, you know. ‘We used to over at the mall ‘think that disease was an act of God. Then we figuredROBERT FULGHUM out it was @ product of human ignorance, so we've bbeen cleaning up our act—literally—ever since We've been getting the excrement off our hands and clothes and bodies and food and houses. If only the scientific experts could come up with something to get it out of our minds. One cup of fixit frizzle that will lift the dirt from our lives, soften our hardness, protect our inner parts, improve our process- ing, reduce our yellowing and wrinkling, improve our natural color, and make us sweet and good. Don’t try Cheer, by the way. I tasted it. It's awful, (But my tongue is clean, now.) Tis is we sexonoon. Nice lady. Coming out her front door, on her way to work and in her “looking good”? mode. She's locking the door now and pick- ing up her daily luggage: purse, lunch bag, gym bag for aerobics, and the garbage bucket to take out. She tums, sees me, gives me the big, smiling Hello, takes thee steps across her front porch. And goes “XAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH !!!!"" (That's a direct quote.) At about the level of a fire engine at full cry. Spider web! She has walked full force into a spider web. And the pressing question, of course: Just where is the spider now’? She flings her baggage in all directions. And at the sime time does a high-kick, jitterbug sort of ‘dance—like a mating stork in crazed heat. Clutches at her face and hair and goes ““AAAAAAAGGGGG- GGHHHHHHHHH!!!""”" at a new level of intensity Tries opening the front door without unlocking it.ROBERT FULGHUM light? Nobody goes ““AAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHH- HHHHHHH!!!!!” when they sing it. Maybe because it puts the life adventure in such clear and simple terms, ‘The small creature is alive and looks for adventure Here’s the drainpipe—a long tunnel going up toward some light. The spider doesn’t even think about it—just goes. Disaster befalls it—rain, flood, power- ful forces. And the spider is knocked down and out beyond where it started. Does the spider say, ‘To hell with that””? No. Sun comes out—clears things Up dies off the spider. And the small creature goes Frets soLovion sLANDS IN Tie SOUTH PACIFIC some over to the drainpipe and looks up and thinks it really [— villagers practice a unique form of logging. If a tree is Wants to know what is up there. It’s a little wiser Jp too large tobe felled with an ax, the natives cut it down now-—checks the sky first, looks for better toeholds, ff by yelling at it. (Can't lay my hands on the article, but says a spider prayer, and heads up through mystery § 1 swear I read it.) Woodsmen with special powers toward the light and wherever. creep up on a tree just at dawn and suddenly seream at Living things have been doing just that for a long, ff itat the top oftheir lungs. They continue this for thirty long time. Through every kind of disaster and setback fF days. The tree dies and falls over. The theory is thatthe and catastrophe, We are survivors. And we teach our hollering kills the spirit of the tree. According 0 the kids about that. And maybe spiders tell their kids about villagers, it always works. ; it, to0, im their spider sort of way. ‘Ah, those poor naive innocents. Such quaintly So the neighbor lady will survive and be alittle wiser JF charming habits of the jungle, Screaming at tees, coming out the door on her way to work. And the ff indeed. How primitive. Too bad they don’t have the spider, if it lives, will do likewise. And if not, well, [F advantages of modem technology and the scientific there are lots more spiders, and the word gets around. ff mind. Especially when the word is “AAAAAAAGGG- ‘Me? I yell at my wife. And yell at the telephone and GGGGGHHHHHBHHH' the lawn mower. And yell at the TV and the newspaper y children. I've even been known to shake my and m3 fist and yell at the sky at times.ROBERT FULGHUM Man next door yells at his car a lot. And this summer T heard him yell at a stepladder for most of an aftermoon. We modem, urban, educated folks yell at traffic and umpires and bills and banks and machines—especially machines. Machines and rela- tives get most of the yelling. _ Don’t know what good it does. Machines and things just sit there. Even kicking doesn’t always help. As for people, well, the Solomon Islanders may have a point Yelling at living things does tend to kill the spirit in them. Sticks and stones may break our bones, but words will break our hearts. , Even seen a anacus? You know, those centi- pedelike things with wooden beads in rows, They're sold mostly in knickknack import shops, for wall decoration. But, in fact, an abacus is an adding machine, calculator, and computer. On second thought, that’s not quite true. The abacus is just a visual record of the computations going on in the mind Of the person using it. Millions of people in Asia still use the abacus daily. And it has been in use there for a couple of thousand years or more. Not only is it an effective practical tool, but it is nice to look at. Nice to hold and touch. Wood and brass and ivory. And the older they get and the longer they are handled by a human being, the lovelier they get—smooth and dark and pol- ished. They will last for a lifetime; they will never need updating; all the software needed to drive them is between your ears; and if they break they can be fixed by an eight-year-old with household tools. 9ROBERT FULGHUM ‘The presence of the abacus puts some kinds off Progress in perspective. I remember a time when a| Japanese-American computer conglomerate moved! into the Chinese market in a big way. In order to demonstrate the value of its small pocket calculators, it arranged a contest. The great abacus-PC shoot. out. The guy who won—the one with the abacus, of course—was named Chan Kai Kit, Hong Kong Chinese—a senior cletk for a shipping company. It is ‘true that the operator of the little computer did handle the pile of invoices forty-four seconds faster than Chan Kai Kit and his abacus. But the computer got the wrong answer. Seems the machine operator was in too big a hurry to prove how smart his machine was and fed it fuzzy facts. Much face was lost. Now don’t get me wrong. Pocket calculators are here to stay, and they have their place. A Luddite I am not—machines are not evil in themselves. And a careful, thoughtful man like Chan Kai Kit might do even better with his own pocket calculator instead of his abacus—who knows? It's just that I'm a sentimen- {alist about the wonders of the human hand and mind, And when I find evidence that it can still hold its own in the face of the wizardry of the electronic circuitry of little chips, I am pleased. It is comfort. ing to know that some very old and very simple ways of getting from one place to another still work. ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW ‘And I ponder the fact that an ancient and worn ‘abacus will find its way to the walls of the twentieth ‘century as a thing of art and wonder, made lovely by Fits usefulness and made useful by its beauty. I have an Fold wooden bowl and an elderly chopping knife 1 ‘would stack up against a food processor any day. It's Bthe same story.[AGLI REALLY NEED TO KNOW ‘The answer to some of the questions came the Biiiowing March, When two thousand Comanches avited by the Apaches) showed up in red-and-black ‘paint, with malice on their minds. “San Saba was a kind of quiet place for a while after ‘The fort, the mission, and most of the adventure- hidalgos were wiped from the face of the earth , treasureless, the remnant straggled back fo San pntonio, never to return. I Information to that effect was engraved on the NX LATE APRIL OF 1757, SOLDIERS under Colonel Diegoffistorical marker I read in the town square in San Saba Ont de Pasi and five priests set out from Sanfebis spring. It was supplemented by a pair of elderly Antonio, Pound for spot nthe San Saba River in tlemen sitting-and-spitting on a bench in front of Nil eountry of central Tejas (a's Texas, ering) ‘old courthouse: As it was explained to me, the They came to extend Spanish inuene; t bring Frexans whipped the Mexicans and the Indians and stianity to whatever heathens they might come fbook over what was rightfully theirs. And San Saba, upon. Also, they came to destroy the Apache Indians ex: i right peaceful place now. "Peat and Goat (ater converting them, of course). Above all, they plapital of the World.” So says The San Sat News & came to search for treasure said to be hidden in the ills 27» Which has been publishing for 111 years “ee Balcones Escarpment. ‘The reason I was in San Saba was just to touch base. Built a fort, they did, and mission chapel, too. And lsd travel down from Waco on weekends to court waited forthe Indians to come to them for comfort and (E81#8y fiend named Louise. And long after Louise had solace, with treasure, While they bded thei time, they fad the bad Judemmen! te take up with someone else, T wrote journals, still extant in the library ine they F ll went down to San Saba weekends. For one thing, fast . ‘The country fills my spirit with its simple J could buy beer there. My county was dry, as only a beau.” sad Pade Molina, “but where re the ‘county filled with Baptists could be. And for another, indians?” Diego Ortiz de Parilla said, ‘The country is A6Y had a little rodeo that featured goat-roping, and food, but where are the Inns, and where iste goat-roping is some entertainment. Goats don't break asure! out of the chute running for the pen at the other end. »ROBERT FULGHUM [ALL REALLY NEED TO KNOW ‘They move like they are crazed. Waltz out of Joke float for thirty-five cents and backed that Up chute, flash left, dead stop, run back toward the rop. bith apple pie made by Miz Bob and some hundred And they try to butt you when you try to tie thelfpile coffee—all for eighty-nine cents. Then over t down. You never know about goats. It’s worth goiliffamy’s Store to get into a new pair of Tony Lama a long way to see goat-roping. And get some beeliitfskin boots with goat-roping heels. Wrote them a When you're eighteen. And Louise might hayfifjeck—out-of-town check—and they didn’t even ask changed her mind. see my ILD. Figured I needed the boots. Lady said Too, there was a dance afterward out in the open aifjot many people come all the way from Seattle to buy con a concrete slab alongside the San Saba River. Anfiggots, and she figured I was either honest or stupid and you could sit there in peace and watch the dancing anfie’d bet on honest. the river and eat a baloney-and-white-bread sandwig( Then over to the feedstore on the square for some with @ whole bag of Fritos and a whole bag offfeal deerskin roping gloves. Best work gloves in the chocolate cookies washed down with a six-pack offjorld. New roping gloves smell like nothing else, and Lone Star. Then you'd go dance and hope to God yo they fit just right it takes a surgeon to get them off. didn’t throw up. Hand then out to the Commission Company to watch San Saba, Texas. A piece of home, And it hast'fEthe regular Friday afternoon goat and sheep auction. changed much, which is why I was there this springl[Almost bought a goat, too. Goats are real cheap in San ‘The Spaniards and the Indians are a long way gonifESaba—about twenty dollars gets a little one. T like ‘over in one direction of time. And the Interstate and§ goats. the shopping malls of New Texas are a long way ovelfe It’s real quiet there at night, in San Saba, Texas. in another. Nothing left but Texas stuck somewhere if After you eat your chicken-fried steak with country time about 1945. The big excitement in town is that thefgravy with a side of succotash and mashed potatoes, San Saba Armadillos high school basketball team iff you stick a wintergreen toothpick between your teeth going to the state finals, And the new Kingdom Hall off and wander out the front door of the Alamo Cafe and Jehovah's Witnesses burned down. Some said it was around the courthouse square to the edge of the river, the Methodists, but I don’t know. and you can’t hear a thing except crickets and spring This latter information I overheard at the soda frogs. And the same is true for all those little towns fountain at Bob Everett’s Drugstore on the square. Hadf scattered across central Texas—Cranfils Gap, China 4 2%ROBERT FULGHUM Springs, Valley Mills. Quiet. Very quiet, come su down. Quiet and old and simple and ordinary and ves real. A piece of home. Tknow. You think I’m making this all up. But I’ not. It’s true. Most of it. And no, it’s not heaven of arth. It’s boring as hell in its own way, and I woulda want to live there a week. So why do I tell you} anyway? It’s just this: that there are places we all c from—deep-rooty-common places—that make us whd we are. And we disdain them or treat them lightly af our peril. We turn our backs on them at the risk of self-contempt. There is a sense in which we need tog home again—and can go home again. Not to recove home, no. But to sanctify memory. ‘The Spaniards were right about one thing. Abou San Saba, I mean. Though hard it is to explain, the old legend was correct. There is treasure there.‘Ten nossa 4 nore or, immont, g55- sive, ruthless, coarse, and generally evil. They are responsible for most of the troubles in this world. ‘They're not like us. ‘That's pretty much the summary of the about the Russians. But sometimes something slips through the net of prejudice, some small bit of a sign that is so clean and true and real that it wedges open the rusting Iron Curtain long enough for us to see not an enemy but fellow travelers, joined to us by member- ship in the Fellowship of Joy-and-Pain. See Nicolai Pestretsov. I don't know much about him, I don’t know where he is now, but I'll tell you what I know. He was a sergeant major in the Russian army, thirty- six years old. He was stationed in Angola, a long way from home. His wife had come out to visit him, (On August 24, South African military units enteredROBERT FULGHUM Angola in an offensive against the black nationalist guerrillas taking sanctuary there. At the village of N-Giva, they encountered a group of Russian soldiers. Four were killed and the rest of the Russians fled—except for Sergeant Major Pestretsov. He was captured, as we know because the South African military communiqué said: “Sgt. Major Nicolai Pes- tretsov refused to leave the body of his slain wife, who was killed in the assault on the village.” It was as if the South Africans could not believe it, for the communiqué repeated the information. “‘He ‘went to the body of his wife and would not leave it, although she was dead.”” How strange. Why didn’t he run and save his own hide? What made him go back? Is it possible that he loved her? Is it possible that he wanted to hold her in his arms one last time? Is it possible that he needed to cry and grieve? Is it possible that he felt the stupidity of war? Is it possible that he felt the injustice of fate? Is it possible that he thought of children, born or unborn? Is it possible that he didn’t care what became of him now? It's possible. We don’t know. Or at least we don’t know for certain, But we can guess. His actions answer. ‘And so he sits alone in a South African prison. Not a“Russian’” or “Communist” or ‘*soldier"” or “‘ene- my"” of any of those categories. Just-a-man who cared ‘ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW for just-a-woman for just-a-time more than anything else. Here's to you, Nicolai Pestretsov, wherever you may go and be, for giving powerful meaning to the promises that are the same everywhere; for dignifying that covenant that is the same in any language—"‘for better or for worse, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love and honor and cherish unto death, so help me God.’* You kept the faith; kept it bright—kept it shining. Bless you! (Oh, the Russians are a rotten lot, immoral, aggres- sive, ruthless, coarse, and generally evil. They are responsible for most of the troubles of this world. They are not like us.) Sure.“Tras 1s xo or PansonaL. It may get alte syrupy, so watch out. It started as a note to my wife. And then T thought that since some of you might have husbands cor wives and might feel the same way, I'd pass it along. I don’t own this story, anyway. Charles Boyer does Remember Charles Boyer? Suave, dapper, hand- some, graceful. Lover of the most famous and beau- tiful ladies of the silver screen. That was on camera ‘and in the fan magazines. In real life it was different. ‘There was only one woman, For forty-four years. His wife, Patricia, Friends said it was a lifelong love affair. They were no less lovers and friends and companions after forty-four years than after the first 7 Then Pasa developed cancer of the liver. And though the doctors told Charles, he could not bear to tell her. And so he sat by her bedside to provide hope ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW and chet. Day and night for six months. He could not change the inevitable. Nobody could. And Patricia died in his arms. Two days later Charles Boyer was also dead. By his own hand. He said he did not want to live without her. He said, “Her love was life to me.” This was no movie. As I said, it’s the real story—Charles Boyer’s story. It’s not for me to pass judgment on how he handled his grief. But it is for me to say that I am touched and comforted in a strange way. Touched by the depth of ove behind the apparent sham of Hollywood love life. Comforted th know that a man and woman can love each other that much that Jong. Idon’t know how I would handle my grief in similar circumstances. I pray I shall never have to stand in his shoes. (Here comes the personal part—no apologies.) But there are moments when I look across the room—amid the daily ordinariness of life—and see the person I call my wife and friend and companion. And Lunderstand why Charles Boyer did what he did. It really is possible to love someone that much. I know. I'm certain of it.Wa HED A MAN SETTING UP A VALENTINE’S DAY display in a store window. It’s the middle of January, but the merchants need to get a jump on love, T guess, Don’t get me wrong—merchants are fine folks. They give us choices and keep us informed on the important holidays. How would you know it was Halloween or Valentine's Day or Mother's Day early enough to do something about it, if merchants didn’t stay on the job? ‘The other group I count on is kindergarten teachers, ‘They always know about holidays, and when it comes to valentines and other evidence of Jove, no merchant ‘can compete with them. What the kindergarten teach- ‘ers set in motion, no merchant could sell—it’s beyond price—you can’t get it at the store. ‘What I'm talking about here is something I think of as the gummy lump. Once it was a shoe box, decorated and given to me by the oldest child. Then it became a repository of other relics of childhood given to me by ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW the younger children. The shoebox became my trea- sure chest in time. Its components are standard: Three colors of construction paper—pink and red and white—faded now, aluminum foil, orange tissue pa- pet, several paper doilies, three kinds of macaroni, gumdrops, jelly beans, some, little white hearts (the kind that taste like Tums) with words on them, and the whole thing held together with a whole big lot of white library paste, which also tastes like Tums. Anyhow, this shoe box isn’t looking too very good now. It's a little shriveled and kind of moldy where the jelly beans and gumdrops have run together. Its still sticky in places, and most of it is more beige than red and white. If you lift the lid, however, you will begin to know what makes me keep it. On folded and faded and fragile pieces of large-lined schoo! paper, there are words: “Hi daddi’” and ““Hoppy valimtime’’ and ‘I lov you.”” A whole big lot of “I lov you.”” Glued to the bottom of the box are twenty-three X's and O's made out of macaroni. I've counted them more than once. Also scrawled in several places are the names of three children. ‘The treasures of King Tut are nothing in the face of this. Have you got something around the house like a gummy lump? Evidence of love in its most uncompli- cated and most trustworthy state? You may live a long, Jong time. You may receive gifts of great value andROBERT FULGHUM beauty. You may experience much love. But you will never believe in it quite as much as you believe in the gummy lump. It makes your world go round and the ride worth the trouble. ‘The three children are grown up now. They still love me, though it’s harder sometimes to get direct evi dence. And it’s love that’s complicated by age and knowledge and confusing values. Love, to be sure. But not simple. Not something you could put in a shoe box. This sticky icon sits on a shelf at the top of my closet. Nobody else knows it’s there. But I do. It is a talisman, a kind of cairn to memory, and I think about it every moming as I dress. Once in a while 1 take it down from the shelf and open it. It is something I can touch and hold and believe in, especially when love gets difficult and there are no small arms around my neck anymore. Oh, sure, this is the worst kind of simpleminded, heartrending Daddy-drivel imaginable. I've probably ‘embarrassed us both by telling you. But it beats hell out of a mood ring or a mantra when it comes to comfort. Thave no apology. The gummy lump stands for my kind of love. Bury it with me, I want to take it with me as far as I go. Tras s ss0vr 4 nouse 1 ones ven. An ely lakeside cottage built at the end of the road at the end of the nineteenth century. A summer place for a family who traveled by horse and buggy out from Seattle through deep woods and over steep hills on logging trails. Tt was wild there, then, and it is wild there stil. The house sat off the ground on bricks, surrounded by thickets of blackberry bushes and morning-glory vines bent on a struggle to the death. And even though it is only minutes, now, from downtown, squirrels, rabbits, feral pussycats, and “things” I never saw but only heard had long established squatters” rights on the Property. And raccoons. We had raccoons. Big ones. Several. For reasons known only to God and the hormones of raccoons, they chose to mate underneath my house. Every spring. And for reasons known only to God and the hormones of raccoons, they chose to mate under- neath my house at three A.M.ROBERT FULGHUM Until you have experienced raccoons mating under- neath your bedroom at three in the morning, you have missed one of life’s more sensational moments. It is an uncommon event, to say the least. If you've ever heard cats fighting in the night, you have a clue. Magnify the volume and the intensity by ten, It's not what you'd call a sensual and erotic sound. More like a three-alarm fire is what itis. I remember the first time it happened. Since condi- tions were not really conducive to sleep, I got up. When I say I got up, I mean J GOT UP. About three feet. Straight up. Covers and all. When I had recovered my aplomb and adjusted to the new adrenaline level, I got a flashlight and went outside and peered up under the house. This lady raccoon and her suitor were squared off in a comer, fangs bared, covered with mud and blood, and not looking very sexy at all. Neither my presence nor the beam of light could override what drove them on. With snarls and barks and screams, the passionate encounter raged on. While I watched, the matter was finally consummated and resolved. They had no shame, What had to be done was done. And they wandered off, in a kind of glazy-eyed stupor, to groom themselves for whatever might come next in the life of a raccoon. I sat there in the rain, my light still shining into the trysting chamber. And I pondered. Why is it that love ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW and life so often have to be carried forth with so much pain and strain and mess? I ask you, why is that? I was thinking of my own sweet wife asleep in the bed right above me, and our own noises of conflict mixed with affection. I wondered what the raccoons must conclude from the sounds a husband and wife make at night—the ones that sound like “If- you-really-loved-me-you-would-not-keep-making- such-a-mess-in-the-bathroom,”” followed by “OH, YEAH? WELL,-LET ME TELL YOU A FEW THINGS. . . .” Why isn’t love easy? I don’t know. And the raccoons don't say.Cassin rstonoss is Te ronan Nave oF A Bee In its larval form, it carries a small sack of garbage around on its back. There’s a little pronged fork sticking up at the end of its abdomen, When the larva molts, the old skin catches on the fork and makes a kind of garbage bag. The anal aperture is right there, too, and fecal matter is deposited in the bag. Fora long time, zoologists pondered the purpose of this arrange- ment. ‘Then they noticed the ant. A hunting ant that likes to eat beetle larvae. An ant that is also fastidious in nature, grooming itself often to keep tidy. (You see what's coming?) So when the ant scurties up and gives the larva a preliminary feel to size it up for dinner, the larva hits it with the garbage bag. The ant falls back to clean up the noxious mess, and the larva slumps away. Zoolo- gists refer to this device as a ‘‘fecal shield.””ROBERT FULGHUM And while I have never actually seen this encounter take place (I just read about it in a book, so it must be true... .), itrings a bell. Twas at a cocktail party recently and saw a man and ‘a woman doing the same thing as the larva and the ant. Nature so works it that everybody gets a tum at getting what they deserve in one way or another. And while the meek may or may not be blessed, some of them are prepared. Lawes meso wave ms asa sunoen vistlst week, up ftom California, Traveling with two eigh- teen-year-old girls and a small boa constrictor. In an anemic VW van with PEACE, LOVE, LIGHT written on the side, The inside of the bus was decorated like the set for Alice in Wonderland. He's forty-seven. Wife, four kids, house in the Berkeley hills, job in the city with big firm . . . the whole catastrophe. Tkeep up with him because he’s always a little ahead of the times. He's taken all the trips—and I do mean ALL the trips. A walking sociological experiment of the sixties and seventies in American culture. Civil rights, Vietnam, Hip, TA, TM, vegetarian, Zen, massage, LSD, palmistry, ten brands of yoga, mac- rame, psychoanalysis, backpacking, hot tubs, nudism, crystals, more religious movements than you can name, and vitamins. He's got all the equip- ment—blenders and pipes and grinders and bikes and “6 _