I was startled by the intrusion of that bumper sticker into my audio world. It had shown itself visually many times, and had been categorized in my mind with other sayings that are “partly true”. I acknowledge that a whole lot of one’s experience in life comes from how one chooses to react – but, when, say, an unexpected bullet rips through one’s chest, it’s a real stretch to find a positive take on it. So I took that saying for what it was worth. It’s worth at least a little, since most days aren’t quite as bad as the hypothetical getting-shot day.

I think it was because I’d categorized it as “partly true” that I was startled. It didn’t seem worth stating out loud, especially to a total stranger with no context whatsoever. If someone had accused me of taking that comment out of context, I would have replied that there had been no context to take it out of.

I looked up, already starting to reason that the comment must have been directed toward someone else; but no, there stood the comment’s source, looking right at me. He was a man, somewhere between his mid-thirties and mid-forties, with sideburns from the 1970’s, anachronistic as might be for a man his age.

He had a huge grin on his face, the kind that irritable people often feel like punching. Fortunately, I was not feeling particularly irritable that day. I looked up from the park bench I was sitting on, and he looked down at me. I didn’t move to stand, he didn’t move to sit, and that seemed to suit us both just fine.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I just sometimes look sad when I’m thinking.”

“Fine is no better than a speeding ticket,” he replied, and this time, instead of being startled, I was confused. That was so dumb that nobody would even bother making a bumper sticker out of it; yet I had just watched his sincere-but-smiling mouth form the words. At that point, I did stand up, because I had just noticed that his smile and his eyes did not match. Just looking into his eyes, I could see that he was dead inside. As healthy as he appeared to be physically, his soul was covered with spiritual flies and was being eaten through by spectral worms. Though he was clean and well-groomed (the sideburns notwithstanding) outside, the noise and stench inside were sickening.

I looked again to be sure. Knowing how my own neutral, contemplative moods had so often been misinterpreted, I wanted to avoid making the same mistake. He didn’t look contemplative – his grin was not a contemplative grin; and his eyes expressed no depth, either, though I very much wished they did – at least six feet of depth, so those flies would leave him alone.

I wondered what the problem might be, but I knew I couldn’t ask him directly. It was clear that he would deny that there was any problem, and that he would then quote another bumper sticker, or worse. “So how are you?” I finally asked, unable to think of anything better.

“FanTAStic!” he replied. His voice contained a clear echo of a time when he was trying to mean it, and perhaps a more distant echo of a time when he actually did mean it. He was not lying, I realized. It was the automatic response of a mind no longer in possession of a self. I wondered if there was any hope for him – normally, you cannot wake the dead, but it’s hard not to hold out hope for the dead who still have healthy bodies.

It made me think of Thanatopsis, the poem by William Cullen Bryant. That poem never gave me much comfort. In more than 80 lines of elaborate verse, the poet never seemed to establish more than that you re-enter the ecosystem; that all the great people who died before you are part of the same ecosystem; and, further, that everyone who lives after you will end up there, too. The best thing he can say about pushing up daisies is that daisies are, indeed, being pushed up.

But maybe this gives some hope to the man who was standing before me. Maybe this poor individual, who had struggled through every less-than-fantastic day certain that all the day’s faults were of his own choosing – who had toiled under the stress and pressure of that guilt – could yet be saved. I dared to look into his eyes once more. “It’s not your fault,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

He smiled even bigger, and said, “Okay, then!” I never got any indication whether or not my seed had taken root. But maybe, in that healthy body, a new spirit can grow. Maybe there is, within his still-functioning brain, a mind that can be awakened with new life, and maybe the person he was can be remade into a happier, more balanced individual who does not feel the need to make every day into a fantastic one.  In short, maybe he has enough “ecosystem” within him to grow another soul.

I hope so. He seems like he could be a nice guy, and the world could use a few more nice guys.
________________
Note: This piece is dedicated to Moon, who wanted more!

Most people we consider uniquely talented are just the best at what they do, by one measure or another.  Setting aside the fact that most of these claims are arguable, you’re still left with the fact that, if the best jazz musician in the world suddenly lost her or his abilities, there would instantly be another best jazz musician in the world.  So, I’m not talking about being the best at something, or even about being the only one who can perform a specific task, such as play a particularly difficult piece of music.

A doctor in a certain theater may be the only one in the world who can save the life of the lead actor who’s just collapsed on stage, but that’s based on being in a particular place at a particular time, and that’s not what I’m talking about either.  Generally, there are thousands, or millions, of doctors out there who could have done the same thing if they’d been there.

Given all the common scenarios I’ve ruled out, you may think I’m talking about something purely hypothetical, but I’m not.  I’m talking about me.  I don’t know how I could be talking about anyone else, really.  I’m not sure I could believe anyone else if they told me.  There’s no way to prove, even to yourself, that you have a completely unique talent.  You just have to come to believe it over time.

If there are others in the world, with their own unique talents, I’m sure their stories are different.  I don’t know if a common thread could be found or not.  But, for me, the message has been out there, clearly communicated, since I was a child. I’ve just chosen until now to ignore it, or to look at it as being metaphorically or generally true – but I’ve just been fooling myself.  Decades of denial are coming to an end.

You might expect that I had a mentor approach me, someone in the know, like in the movies or on television, who could tell me what my abilities are and how I can use them.  But it’s not like that in real life, at least not for me.  I have received no guidance on how to use my abilities, or where best to use them.  I haven’t figured any of that out for myself yet, either, so much of my story remains to be told.

There’s a mysterious quality to how I came to know of my unique ability.  The message comes to me through standard media channels.  I’ve heard the message on the radio.  I’ve seen it in print, on TV, and even on billboards.  I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it, in more recent years, on the Web.  The message does not have my name on it.  I don’t know how they managed to tailor it to me.  It seems impossible that they could have, but the logic is undeniable.  Somehow, they did it.

Many questions remain unanswered.  My ignorance of how and where to use my ability is fundamental.  I have only the vaguest ideas on how to proceed, and none of them would lead me to believe that my ability is unique – so I think I must not be on the right track.  I also wonder what the radio, print, TV, billboard, and Web spots are saying to everyone else, to those for whom the message is not tailored.  It seems important that I figure out how to proceed.  Whatever Smokey the Bear is saying to everyone else, I’ve come to know that only I can prevent forest fires.

He felt in his pocket for the key, and had a moment of apprehension – but no, he’d remembered it. He sighed with relief. Lately, the back door had been locked, too, and he didn’t dare break another window – not after last time. Without the key, he would have had to wait for Jenn to get home, and then find a place to be until their parents arrived, hours later. Jake and Jenn were quiet and polite enough, but, even so, their neighbors had become tired of providing them shelter.

But today, because he’d remembered his key, he had a half hour of peace and quiet before his sister came through the door. He locked the door behind him, made himself a snack, and plopped down on the living room couch. He needed to stay near the door so he could hear when Jenn knocked. The TV remote was missing, and he didn’t feel like looking for it. He closed his eyes, and was nearly asleep when the knock came.

He woke up just enough to shuffle to the door, unlock it, and lock it again once Jenn was sprinting up the stairs to her room. He plopped down on the couch again, and something deep inside it made a loud snapping noise. The couch didn’t feel any different, and Jake was unconcerned. He tried to think back to when he was eight and in third grade, a virtually eternal gulf of four years, and to remember if he had had that kind of energy back then.

When his dad got home in a few hours, he would have to pretend to have more energy. His dad was prone to tell him things like, “You’re twelve years old! You should be ready to conquer the world! Instead, you wave a white flag and say, ‘Come get me, world. You beat me!’” Jake didn’t necessarily feel defeated, but what would he do with the world if he did conquer it, and what would he bother to change? It just seemed best right then to save his energy for the time when he needed it.

He was just beginning to weigh the benefits of climbing the stairs to get to his room – he would get added privacy, and his bed was more comfortable than the couch, but he would have to get up and climb the stairs to get there – when his sister bounded down the stairs again. The girl barely weighed sixty pounds. How did she make so much noise?

“I’m hungry,” she announced, way too loudly.

“The kitchen’s over there,” he replied, pointing vaguely.

“I can’t reach the mac and cheese.”

“Get a chair.”

“And Dilly’s hungry too.”

He glanced over, and, yes, she had that stupid armadillo cradled in her arms. He closed his eyes again. “Dilly’s a stuffed animal. He’s fabric and fluff. He doesn’t get hungry.”

“I eat for both of us. And I don’t want to climb a chair.”

“I guess you’re not that hungry then.”

“Pleeeeaaase get us some foooood!” pleaded a sweet, high-pitched voice.

“I saw your lips moving,” snapped Jake.

“Your eyes weren’t even open!” Jenn shot back.

“But I know you moved your lips. You always move your lips when Dilly ‘talks’,” said Jake with a sneer and big, sarcastic air quotes.

“Dilly needs help, that’s all.”

“You need help!”

“You just told me I didn’t.”

“You don’t need help to get food. You need mental help.” He gave up any hope of rest and sat up, looking at her. Then he looked past her to the kitchen table. “Mr. Chair,” he called out with honey-sweet politeness, “will you please slide over to the pantry so poor little Jenn doesn’t have to push you there?”

“Grow up!”

“You grow up! Talking to a chair is no more stupid than talking to stupid fake armadillo! Real armadillos aren’t even soft and furry like that. They’re hard and spiny.”

“That chair’s not a part of you. You were just talking to the chair to make fun of me.”

“You’re eight years old! You’re not four. You need to give up your stupid stuffed animals!”

“You’re twelve years old, not two! It doesn’t hurt you one bit when I talk to Dilly, so why do you care?”

“It’s time for you to give him up. It was time two years ago.”

“You’re not allowed to parent me. Don’t make me tell Mom and Dad you’re trying to parent me!”

Jake paused. He had to choose his words carefully. He truly despised those lectures he got about not trying to parent Jenn.

“No, I’m not – I’m not trying to really tell you what to do. It’s just – well, how long are you going to keep this up?”

“I don’t know. But even teenagers keep stuffed animals.”

“Mostly girls…”

“I’m a girl!”

“They keep them like decorations – they don’t talk to them!”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know anyth…” Suddenly, she paused. She saw something in his eyes, something beyond big-brother meanness, and she was surprised to see it there. “It’s not true. I’m sorry. You know lots of things.” She paused again, and asked, respectfully, really wanting an answer, “Why do you care?”

Jake had been ready to snap back at her, but her new tone caught him off guard. “It just doesn’t seem right,” he ventured. “You’re old enough to know he’s not real.”

“But nothing else bothers you like Dilly. I have books from when I was in Kindergarten. You never say a thing when I read them. I have blocks from when I was even younger, and, sometimes, when I stack those up, you even play with me. It’s only Dilly and maybe my dolls that bother you.”

“’Dilly and the Dolls’ – it sounds like a really bad rock band.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just tell me why.”

“I guess it’s because you’re old enough to know they’re not real. I saw your science book, when you were working on animals. You know the difference. You know your stuffed animals are toys, not animals. You know your dolls aren’t people. But you talk like they are. And you never stop pretending they’re real. They’re no more alive than the rocks in our front yard. You should know that by now.”

“Jake, I’ve always known that Dilly isn’t like a real animal.”

“So, you know he’s not real?”

“I know he’s not a real animal. But he’s real.”

“But you talk to him. You talk for him. You only pretend he eats and talks and thinks.”

“He needs my help to eat and talk and think. That doesn’t mean I’m pretending.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Dilly doesn’t have a brain inside him, I know, and he doesn’t have a mouth that opens, or a voice, or a stomach. I have to do all that stuff for him. But when he thinks, it’s not just me thinking. It’s a special part of my brain just for Dilly. That part of my brain decides what Dilly is going to say, and what he likes to eat. It decides when he’s hungry. The Dilly part of my brain only works when Dilly is around.”

“Okay, so what if somebody stole Dilly? How would he know what to say and think and eat?”

“Nobody can steal all of Dilly. They can only steal the stuffed animal part. If they played with him, they’d make a new part of their brain for Dilly. He’d have a whole different personality.”

“But all that’s just fake!”

“No. If it were fake, I could make Dilly talk and think when he wasn’t around. But I can’t.”

“You really can’t?”

“I could fake it, but it wouldn’t be the same. I bet even you could tell the difference.”

“Even me? I thought we were being nice.”

“Yeah, sorry. I meant even though you don’t believe me, you’d still see the difference.”

“Okay.”

“So, I guess I know that Dilly’s brain is really part of my brain, but I like to think of that part of me as just Dilly’s brain. And, if I didn’t have Dilly, I might lose that part of my mind.”

“I think you already – no, sorry, being nice.”

“Good catch, Jake.”

“Thanks.”

“And you see why I get so upset when you insult him, or take him away. You insult part of me, and steal away part of my mind. So, do you think you can stop being mean?”

“Well, not forever.”

“Of course not forever; you’re still my brother. You’ll always be mean sometimes.”

“So will you.” Jenn nodded in agreement. Jake continued, “But I think I can put up with Dilly now that I know he’s an extra part of your brain. You need all the extra brain you can get.”

“Jake!”

“Just kidding. So, Dilly’s still not going to be my favorite part of your brain.”

“That’s okay. Only one part can be your favorite. We’re still hungry, though.”

“All right. I’m awake now.”

Jake walked over to the kitchen, and pulled down a packet of macaroni and cheese. Three-and-a-half minutes later, Jenn and Dilly had a snack.

Jake went up to his room to find a book to read. He was about to flop down on his unmade bed when he turned suddenly toward his closet. Rummaging way back in the corner, on the top shelf, he found Ruff, right where he thought he would be. With that impulse out of the way, he was ready to flop down again, and he did. The box springs protested loudly.

He lay there with the brown floppy dog in front of him. “I haven’t seen you in ages,” he said.

“I’ve been right here,” replied an oddly dog-like voice.

“I’m sorry. I guess I thought I didn’t need you anymore.”

“Maybe you didn’t.”

“But I’m glad you’re still there.”

“Me too.”

Jake scratched Ruff behind his ears, and his head moved in appreciation, as convincingly as any living dog could manage. From an unknown location deep inside Jake’s closet, another voice came to him. “Can I talk to you, too?”

Jake was unprepared for this part of his mind to reassert itself, but he recognized the voice immediately. It was Mr. Smiley, a round, yellow pillow with round, black eyes and a wide black grin. “Sure,” replied Jake, but he realized that one wall after another was being knocked down inside him just so that the soft and cuddly face could talk.

“This is a lot of work,” said the pillow. “Do you think you can help me? It’s like you’ve forgotten how to be happy.”

“I didn’t forget. I just learned what real life was like.”

“Real life has happiness.”

“Every time I learn something in school, there are two more things I’m falling behind in. For every friend I have, there are five kids who make fun of me, and ten more who can’t even see me. My only purpose at home is to give my little sister everything she wants, or pay the consequences when Mom and Dad get home. Every time I try to be happy, I’m just fooling myself.”

“You did forget. Happy things are just as real as sad things. There are just as many happy things. You just have to remember how to find them.”

Jake crawled out of bed again. He rummaged around in his closet for a full five minutes until he found Mr. Smiley, flattened under a box no human had touched for over three years. He fluffed up Mr. Smiley, and brushed off as much dust as he could. Jake still felt sluggish and tired. Even the combined powers of Ruff and Mr. Smiley could not turn Jake’s mood around instantly.

Jake snuggled quietly under his blanket, with Ruff under one arm and Mr. Smiley under the other. He slept. The first bit of happiness he found was warmth and comfort. There followed two hours of sleep more restful than any full night had been for quite some time.

When his dad came home, Jake woke feeling refreshed. He didn’t have to pretend to have energy. His energy was real. He bounded down the stairs, heedless of the noise he was making.

“Did you have a good day?” asked his father.

“It’s a good day now.”

The man was positively beaming. “Good!” he said, simply. Jake realized that it didn’t take so much to please his dad after all.

Jenn was setting the table for dinner with one hand while she cradled Dilly in the other. Jake ruffled Dilly’s head, smiling. “Thanks, big guy,” he said aloud.

“Thanks for whaaaat?” asked that sweet, high-pitched voice, but Jake didn’t answer.

Ruff took up residence on top of Jake’s dresser, where he appeared to be a tangled, furry, brown decoration. Mr. Smiley became Jake’s top pillow. They were there to greet him every morning and talk about his day each night. He didn’t carry them around, but those parts of his mind were exercised every day, and he was happier because of it.

A few weeks later, Jake walked off to his bus stop again. He climbed the hill carefully, because an inch or so of snow had fallen the previous night. He felt in his pocket, and the key was there. At the top of the hill, he glanced back toward his house. Both the roof and yard looked better for the fresh white covering of snow. The pool still covered a circle of dead grass, and contained six inches of leaves over three inches of water and ice – but on top of that was an inch of snow, and that made all the difference.

All that came from a glance. He spent more time looking forward, with shops and stores to the right and tall trees to the left – as much freshness and beauty as he could take in. He pondered the fact that, a scant month ago, he would have stumbled wearily through his morning without noticing any of the fresh beauty around him. Behind him, down the hill, he heard a distant bark and felt a warm smile. “It’s going to be another good day,” he said to himself.

A couple of months ago, I was participating in an online version of a college bull-session, when I was referred to two different books about the study of infinity throughout the ages: The Infinite Book: A Short Guide to the Boundless, Timeless and Endless by John D. Barrow and A Brief History of Infinity: The Quest to Think the Unthinkable by Brian Clegg. I found both books fascinating, and both mentioned an early Renaissance thinker I hadn’t known about, known to Latin-friendly English-speakers as Nicholas of Cusa.

This thinker, in a philosophical work finished in 1440, called On Learned Ignorance, talked about the equivalence of an infinite straight line and an infinite circle. He also equated a triangle having an infinite base with a straight line, and did a number of other neat geometrical tricks, all in the name of thinking about God. An article I found online, called Nicholas of Cusa and the Infinite by Thomas J. McFarlane, summarizes his views on infinity along with the history of the study of the infinite before and since.

In short, I think that Nicholas of Cusa would like my idea. On Learned Ignorance has a very Zen feel to it – the reader is asked to embrace contradictory ideas, and ideas that on their own don’t seem to make sense. But, instead of a Zen Koan to shock the mind out of logical thinking, Nicholas invokes the idea of infinity to make the impossible seem possible, and the absurd seem plausible. The idea that a triangle with an infinite base is a line, for example, is used as an illustration of the Trinity – how three persons could equal one God.

Given these Zen-like goals, what could be more opposite than positive and negative infinity? This is the coincidence of opposites carried to its logical extreme. I couldn’t find any reference to a number line in On Learned Ignorance, but this isn’t too surprising, since René Descartes, of Cartesian Coordinate fame, wasn’t even born for another 150 years.

The reason I’m writing this, though, is not to assert that Nicholas of Cusa would like my argument, but to demonstrate that there’s a precedent for thinking of an infinite circle being equivalent to a straight line. I’ve looked at numerous references to this, from works cited above to little, one-paragraph “Doesn’t this just blow your mind?” blurbs, and I haven’t seen any mention of it being contradicted or refuted since it was written. Now, mathematics has progressed quite a bit in the last 570-odd years, so I can’t say that On Learned Ignorance validates my idea. But at least I have a philosopher, still known and respected, who wrote about a major basis for my idea.

Maybe having a real philosopher to reference will interest someone in commenting on the idea. I still haven’t found anyone to give an opinion about whether the idea is valid or not. Maybe the name of Nicholas of Cusa will stimulate discussion that so far has gone unstimulated. Can the infinite, properly analyzed, be equated with its own opposite?

On the other hand, I really was having trouble understanding the question, and that played an equally strong role in why I wasn’t answering it. I think she was after something like salary independent of expenses, but the way to express that in the language of a seven-year-old is elusive, and I just wasn’t getting it. But, rather than blame the limitations of the linguistic tools at her disposal, she blamed the man trying to listen.

“A stupid daddy, even dumber than you, would get it!” she declared.

“Does that mean I’m even dumber than a guy who’s dumber than me?”

“YES!”

Now, normally, I’d believe I’d caught her in a contradiction, but this is a girl who’s been wrestling with the idea of the infinite for some time. For any finite level of stupidity, it’s not possible for me to be dumber than a daddy who’s dumber than I am. But, for the infinitely stupid, such a thing is possible.

This may also be one of those times when intuition trumps logic. Even in the real world, it’s possible for the “dumber” of two people, whose intelligence is measured by any criteria you please, to understand something that the “smarter” one fails to grasp. The old Far Side cartoon comes to mind, with a student pushing with all his might on the front door of a school for the gifted. On the door is a sign that says “Pull”.

But that’s really just a matter of two different criteria for intelligence being used. The apparent contradiction isn’t real. But it also somehow makes intuitive sense to say that that someone is so dumb that, not only is it impossible for anyone else to be dumber, it’s even impossible for someone else who is dumber to be dumber – or even quite that dumb. Again, it doesn’t make sense logically at all, so you have to banish logic from your intuition for it to make sense. Really, it’s just a long way of saying someone is impossibly dumb.

So, I think that’s what was going on. She invoked infinite regression to declare that I’m impossibly dumb.

Well, I’ve been called worse.

“We can play a game,” said Kim.

“We can eat a snack,” said Seth.

“We can play out in the yard,” said Jess.

“We can read,” said Sam.

“I do not want to read,” said Jim.

“Why not?” asked Sam.

“It is a bore,” said Jim.

“Yes, books are a bore,” said Kim.

Jess and Seth got out a game and started to play.

“Books are not a bore,” said Sam. “My books are fun.”

Sam showed Kim and Jim a book about a baby dragon afraid to attack its first castle.

“Do you know all these words?” asked Jim.

“Some of these words look very hard,” declared Kim.

“This is one of my favorite books,” said Sam, “so I know most of these words by now. When I first started reading it, my mom had to help me with a lot of the words, but I almost never have to ask anymore.”

“That does look like a fun book,” said Kim. “Let’s read it together.”

Sam and Jim and Kim sat down and took turns reading pages. Sam helped Jim and Kim with any words they didn’t know. When they were all done reading, Jim exclaimed, “That’s about the coolest book I’ve ever read!”

Kim said, “I love that the baby dragon decides that the lives of the people in the castle are as important as its own, and defies its parents. (Thanks, Sam, for telling me what ‘defy’ means!)”

Seth and Jess looked up from their game. “What kind of book are you reading?” asked Jess. “That doesn’t sound like the kind of book I ever get to read at home!”

“That’s because it’s not,” said Seth. “I’ve seen your books.” After a pause, he added, with a sheepish grin, “They’re just like my books!”

“I’ve told my mom that my books are boring,” said Kim. “She says that books will get more exciting when I get to be a better reader. I ask her how I’ll ever get to be a better reader if I never want to read now.”

“Good question!” exclaimed Jim. “What did she say back?”

Kim pouted a bit. “She says I’ll read whether I like to or not, and that’s how I’ll get better.”

“She’s right, I guess,” sighed Sam, “but you’ll get more practice if you like to read.”

“I heard some of the book you were reading,” said Seth. The dragons in that book talked like real people would talk, well, if they were dragons, I mean.”

“My dad says the people in my books don’t talk like real people because I don’t know all the real people words yet,” said Jess.

“Why are all those books so careful not to use any words I don’t know?” asked Jim. “I liked learning new words – the words I already knew how to say, but not how to read, like ‘dragon’ and ‘castle’, and the new ones I didn’t even know how to say yet, like ‘defy’ and ‘agonize’.”

“The baby dragon agonized over killing people,” said Kim. “The books I read make me agonize over being bored! Sometimes I want to defy my parents, too!”

“I liked the baby dragon story, too,” said Seth. “I stopped paying attention to the game. But Jess didn’t like it so much.”

“That’s okay,” said Sam. “We can’t all like the same things. What didn’t you like, Jess?”

“I guess I like books with more action. It seemed like the characters in this book didn’t do anything but talk.”

“I understand that,” replied Sam. “I still like this book, because I think about the action that might happen. Let’s look for a book you would like more!”

Kim smiled with sudden inspiration. “I know how we can find a book we’ll all like!” she said.

“How?” came a simultaneous chorus of four eager voices.

“We can write our own! We can act it out, and take turns writing down what happens!”

There is a moment of collective epiphany that occurs when a simple idea that had been just beyond the reach of everyone present is finally expressed. That moment had just happened in the family room of Sam’s house. As if they’d all been given a script, the players took the stage. Whatever character rotated out to be the scribe was instantly invisible to the others, and the walls of the family room soon melted away. A pristine white castle was visible on the horizon.

The baby dragon, Friedenfeuer, had made a mess of things. Her father, Menschenbrenner, and her mother, Frauenfresser, were not at all pleased with their daughter, and refused to take care of her anymore. Dragons are immune to dragon fire, or the little baby might have been burned up on the spot. Very likely, she escaped only because her parents figured they could find her later.

It was while she was wandering through the tall grass of the meadow near the forest that she came upon Lady Jessica and Lady Kimberly, who had come from the white castle on the hill. They didn’t see the unfortunate baby dragon until she was almost upon them, and she jumped back she when heard them scream. Sir Seth and Sir James, alarmed by the screams, rushed up to see what was wrong.

“’Tis a dragon, I’ll warrant!” exclaimed Sir James.

“No tizzing or warranting. We need to talk regular talk,” said Sir Seth.

“Okay, you’re right,” said Sir James.

The two knights and two ladies quietly examined the baby dragon, who did not seem inclined to attack. “What’s your name?” asked Lady Jessica.

“I’m Friedenfeuer,” said the baby dragon, “but that’s my dragon name. I don’t want to be a dragon anymore.”

“I’m Lady Jessica, this is Lady Kimberly, and these two brave knights are Sir James and Sir Seth. You’re a dragon, and I guess you’ll always be a dragon. But why don’t you want to be one?”

“My mom and dad wanted me to attack that castle up on the hill.” A collective gasp escaped from the four humans as the dragon continued. “I wouldn’t do it. I didn’t want to kill all those people who never did anything to hurt me, ever.” Huge, sizzling tears slid down from her eyes. “But now I don’t know what to do. My mom and dad won’t take care of me anymore, and I’m afraid they’ll kill me if they find me again. I’m also afraid they’ll attack that castle tonight, and it won’t matter that I didn’t attack it earlier.”

There was a moment of silence as the four friends absorbed all that had been said. Lady Jessica finally spoke up. “We were all asleep in the castle last night – all of us. If you had attacked the castle, we would all be dead.” All four of the grateful young nobles stopped to hug the brave baby dragon. “What should we call you?” asked Lady Jessica. “You have a long name. You said … Feederfire … was your dragon name? Do you want a different name? You have to be a dragon, but you don’t have to have a dragon name.”

“Friedenfeuer is my dragon name. Can you call me Samantha? It’s the prettiest name I know.”

Lady Jessica smiled. “That is a pretty name. I love it. We will call you Samantha from now on. Samantha the Friendly Dragon.”

“Just Samantha, please; I don’t know if I want to be friendly yet. I just don’t want to kill people.”

“Just Samantha, then; but we can’t just stand around and talk. My daddy – father, I mean – is king of the castle up there. I have to warn him, so we can try to fight the dragons.”

Lady Kimberly paused, frowning, then smiled. “My father is a king, too – of a different castle. Jess – Lady Jessica – is my friend. I was sleeping over at her … castle. My father has a really big army, with lots of the best arrow-shooters…”

“Archers,” interjected Sir Seth.

“…archers in the land. But his castle is far away. Can you fly, Samantha?”

“Yes, but I’m just a little dragon. I can’t carry all of you.”

“Just carry me, then,” replied Lady Kimberly.

Samantha hesitated. Tears began to well up again in her huge, catlike eyes.

“It’s your mom and dad,” said Lady Jessica. “If the archers slay them, they might be dead.”

“Slaying is killing,” interrupted Sir Seth. “They would be dead.”

“Just let them talk,” said Sir James. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“They’ve got to learn sometime,” Sir Seth mumbled.

“Thank you for understanding,” said Samantha, as sizzling tears began to stream freely. “My mom and dad took care of me every day of my life. I never killed anybody, but some of the meat I ate might have been people you knew. I loved my parents. I still love them. But they’re not more important than you are. And they will kill me if they see me again.” She sobbed quietly. “Don’t hunt them down. I ask that much of you. But if they attack your castle, do what you have to do.”

“Then you’ll help us?” asked Lady Kimberly.

“I’ll help you,” said Samantha.

Carefully, the princess climbed onto Samantha’s back. The young dragon straightened her back, spread her wings, and gave a mighty leap. Not used to the extra weight, she wobbled in the air, flapped harder, and just barely cleared the trees as she reached the forest. The two knights returned to the white castle, with Lady Jessica safely between them. They told their story to King Tom and Queen Judy, Lady Jessica’s parents. They quickly prepared for battle, and made room for their expected guests from the neighboring kingdom. Then they waited.

Just as the sun began to set, King Tony arrived, leading his armies, with Queen Linda and Lady Kimberly at his side.

“Just in time!” said Sir Seth, as Lady Kimberly joined her friends. “Where’s Samantha?”

Lady Kimberly told her story. Samantha had stopped flying some distance from the castle, to avoid being shot down. Then the princess had jumped lightly off her back, and led the dragon to the castle. The castle guards were afraid that the dragon had Lady Kimberly under her spell, but finally allowed them to pass, noting that Samantha was only a baby dragon.

King Tony and Queen Linda looked very carefully at their daughter’s eyes for signs of dragon hypnotism, but the telltale swirling spirals were entirely absent, and the less-common wavy squiggles were also not to be seen. Lady Kimberly had to finish the tale, because Samantha was crying inconsolably in the corner. Steam rose slowly, and small flames brushed harmlessly against the stone walls.

In the end, Samantha could not bring herself to accompany them, and possibly watch either her parents or her new friends get killed. She was overcome by the conflict inside her, and crawled quietly down a hallway as everyone in the palace prepared to leave.

“Everyone?” interjected Sir Seth.

“Yes,” replied Lady Kimberly. “We couldn’t leave anyone in the palace unguarded, so we took everyone with us.”

“Good idea!” exclaimed Sir James. “So that’s why there are so many people coming in!”

It was a full hour after the great castle gates clanged shut, two hours after sunset, when the unmistakable glow of dragon fire was seen far above the forest. Each deep orange jet of flame was closer to the castle than the last. It was soon clear that there were two dragons approaching, and everyone not ready to fight took refuge deep inside the castle. The fires disappeared from the sky, and every knight and soldier tensed for battle. Lady Jessica and Lady Kimberly had pretended to go inside, but were waiting near their friends.

The entire castle was swallowed up in darkness as everyone waited for the attack that was sure to come. With blinding light and searing heat, the moment finally came as the dragons attacked the main courtyard from opposite directions, saturating the area with deadly flame. As they passed, thousands of bowstrings were let loose, and thousands of arrows were heard whistling through the air. Empty, smoking armor still glowed in the courtyard.

But there was no time to mourn the dead. Two enormous crashes were heard, outside the castle grounds on opposite sides of the courtyard. Sir Seth and Sir James stood open-mouthed, leaning on their spears, staring at the smoking armor. Their fathers and uncles were among the archers who had stood ready to fight, and there was no way to know how many of them were reduced to ash in the courtyard right at that moment.

Realizing that their young friends were in shock, and could not be counted on to listen or to fight, Lady Jessica and Lady Kimberly held a very quick conference, then grabbed the speechless knights’ spears and rushed off in opposite directions to the top of the castle walls. Each saw an enormous dragon writhing on the ground, arrows sticking out like quills on a porcupine. Each watched as the dragon before her struggled to regain its composure, still shocked, gaping open-mouthed in disbelief. Each young lady hurled a spear deep into a dragon’s mouth.

As the dragons gasped, sighed, and collapsed, the knights on the walls rushed down as fast as they could climb, and finished the job. Then torches were lit, and the bravest knights went back to survey the grim remains in the courtyard. But all they found was armor and wood ash. As it turned out, the generals had not assigned anyone at all to the courtyard, but had instead ordered a few of their most trusted knights to place empty armor there, propped up to look like soldiers. The real archers were ready just beyond, in more protected positions. So, not a single knight or soldier was killed. Lady Kimberly and Lady Jessica were celebrated for their quick thinking, and a great feast was scheduled for the next day at King Tony’s castle. Nobody has ever figured out a good way to cook dragon, so the two dragon bodies were set adrift at sea, and were never seen by human eyes again.

As the procession reached King Tony’s castle late the next day, however, they could see that something was wrong. Smoke was rising from inside the walls. They got closer, and saw that no wooden roof or door, and not a stick of furniture, remained in the entire castle. They guessed that the dragons had seen the armies leave during the day, and had decided to attack the unguarded castle – but, finding it empty of all people, had rushed to their original target, the pristine white castle of King Tom, enraged at being tricked. There, they were tricked again, and their killing days were ended forever.

A frantic search was made for Samantha, who had stayed alone in the castle, unable to face the conflict to come. From the heights of the towers to the deepest dungeon, they searched and found no sign of life – until a large stone tile rose from the floor of an empty dungeon cell, with a dragon head under it. Samantha had buried herself under the dungeon, and was safe.

The reunion between Samantha and her four new friends was bittersweet. All her friends were fine, and she no longer needed to fear her ruthless parents. But her mom and dad were gone, and she had nobody left to care for her. But, of course, she did. Her friends would learn all they needed to know to feed her and see to her every need. She was a hero in both kingdoms, and was greeted with cries of joy wherever she appeared.

As the five fast friends quietly contemplated what to do next, they heard a telephone ring. The walls of the family room returned, and Sam’s parents – not the dead dragons, but her real, human parents, entered the room. “It sounds like there was quite a battle in here!” they said. “But Seth’s parents say dinner is almost ready and it’s time to go home. Dinner will be ready soon here, too, so Jim, Kim, and Jess, you should probably also go home.” Kim finished writing the last sentence of the story on a piece of paper, and handed it, along with a stack of other papers, to Sam, who was designated to transcribe all the notes and convey the whole story in her own words.

The next time they met, they each had a favorite book from the library. They’d convinced their parents to let them try books outside their stilted curricula, and they were all bursting with ideas for their next story. Some were more sequels to the baby dragon story, and others were entirely new stories, based on the books they all read to each other.

Whenever the walls of the room they were in melted away, you never knew where they would end up next.

“It’s quite a long haul. You’ll pull an all-nighter.”
“Yes, true, I might, but I’m a tough fighter.”
“Won’t your quality tend to suffer?”
“They’re not too bad, and I’ve written rougher.”

“Well, after tonight, your poems will be done.
You’ll catch up on sleep, go out, and have fun.
But your teacher will suffer when you’ve gained your freedom.
You had to write ‘em, but HE has to read ‘em!”

My Answer: Never judge judging a book by its cover by its cover.

Both literally and metaphorically, there are just too many books out there. You can’t read them all, and you probably can’t even read reviews for them all. For most, you won’t even pull the book off the shelf so you can see the whole cover. Judging books by their covers is an imperfect system. You end up missing a lot of really good books, and you may end up reading some that are a waste of your time.

Sometimes, you’ll get a good recommendation, or hear a book review on the radio – but this is really just another kind of “cover” – information that may or may not serve you well in knowing the nature of the whole book – and, the more in-depth you go in your selection, the fewer books you’ll be able to know anything about at all.

In short, you have to judge books by their covers, in one way or another. With time and practice, you can develop an eye for the kinds of books you might like – but it will never be perfect. It helps to know you’re making assumptions – that every book you pass over may be the read of a lifetime, and you may never know. But, not knowing, you’ll still be able to enjoy the best of the books you do read.

And Jesus, surfing on a site in Galilee, saw two brethren, Simon called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting their words upon the net: for they were bloggers. And he tweeteth unto them, Follow Me, that ye may ever know my status. – Matthew 4:18-19 (paraphrased)

Some of you may have seen that before, but I couldn’t resist using it again. I’m putting out my call, too. “Follow Me, for when I tweet, thou shalt know when Steve should be read.” I won’t be telling anybody what I’m having for breakfast, or when I’m going out clubbing. This will be reserved for ReadSteve type news. What kind of news is that? You can’t know what you don’t follow!

http://twitter.com/ReadSteve will get you there, or you can just search for ReadSteve (no spaces) on Twitter. I’m pretty easy to find.

My answer: Speak for yourself!

I believe in my ability to have an open, yet critical mind. I think that too many of the world’s evils come from people taking rigid, inflexible stands for which they have no logical support. I’m sure I have some unsupported beliefs. Maybe we can’t even function without them – but I think it makes sense to at least recognize our unsupported beliefs, and realize they could be wrong.

I resent the implication that openness to change of opinion through learning makes me a gullible fool. Users of this Saying, if you need to stand up for something through thick and thin in order to function in this world, then, by all means, do it. Recognizing your limitations, and working with them, is important. But don’t go telling me that I need the same thing. I don’t think I do – and there are all kinds of things I don’t fall for. That’s why I say, “Speak for yourself!”

I do think that, to make sense of the world, you need a way of filtering through all that the world throws at you, and finding truth in the whirlwind of irrelevant and misleading information that surrounds us continuously. But to refer to that method as “standing for something” seems to me very narrow indeed.  There are other ways to filter.

Finally, this saying qualifies for my Truth Through Wordplay Alert. In this instance, the content of the saying bugs me a lot more than the wordplay that “supports” it.