It turns out that I have inherited my father’s ability to hold his breath for a frighteningly long time. Over the years, I have terrified many people, including my wife, by disappearing under the water for excessive periods of time, never once thinking about that moment by the pond when I thought I had lost my father forever. This is probably a story that I will tell someday.
oh, the pond, Yawgoog had three different waterfronts and Ashaway Aquatic Center — I never took / I was a lifeguard at Yawgoog — so boring so dumb to be a lifeguard at a Boy Scout camp — at least you give yourself a chance to look at girls but I saved that kid who couldn’t swim and didn’t want to tell anyone /
The memory of the Mello Yello water hole triggered memories of Yawgoog Pond, at the center of Yawgoog Scout Reservation. Yawgoog was the Boy Scout camp where I spent many summer days as a boy. The bit about the stupidity of working as a lifeguard at an all-boys’ camp might be worth exploring for part of an essay or perhaps for my stand-up routine. It feels funny. Or at least potentially funny.
As for the boy who nearly drowned (after being too embarrassed to admit that he couldn’t swim), I had forgotten about that moment entirely until this Crash & Burn session, and it will certainly make a good story someday.
when Eric and what’s his name? Rory yes Rory flipped their canoe adults facing away from pond and Jeff and I went to /
Yawgoog Pond brought me to a pond in Vermont. While visiting friends at their vacation home years ago, a boy named Eric and his friend Rory turned over their canoe over in the middle of the pond. The two boys weren’t wearing life jackets, so they were clinging to the edge of their submerged canoe for dear life. My friend Jeff and I were the only adults who noticed that the boys were in trouble, so we raced out in a canoe to help. The boys credited us with saving their lives, but in truth they could have clung to their canoe for quite a while. I was still happy to take the credit.
Possibly a story, or at least part of a story.
A more storyworthy moment from that visit to Vermont came when Eric walked in on my wife, Elysha, fully naked and six months pregnant. Elysha nearly killed the poor boy, who ran for his life and later denied seeing anything, though we all knew that was impossible.
By some bizarre twist of fate, Elysha would become Eric’s fifth-grade teacher two years later, making him perhaps the only ten-year-old boy in the history of American education to see his elementary-school teacher fully naked while pregnant. Now that is a story that needs to be told.
As you know, I’m simply needing to tell my facet of the story.
a pirate is a criminal on the sea — I should commit a crime on the sea so I can be legally called a pirate /
Something about the memory of racing onto that lake in a canoe brought the idea of piracy to my mind. I’m not sure if committing a crime at sea would make me a pirate, but it felt right when I wrote it.
If it’s true, and if I need not be arrested or convicted of a crime to be classified as a pirate, I may add this to my bucket list. Commit some petty crime — steal silverware from a riverboat cruise — so I can add “pirate” (or even better, “buccaneer”) to my résumé.
I was a criminal but if you’re found not guilty were you never a criminal or a former criminal? actually I was definitely a criminal: mailbox baseball and stealing the shoes lots of other crimes — isn’t everyone a criminal or am I just especially bad / list of crimes would be / story about a guy who commits a crime at sea just to be a pirate and wears an eye patch for effect /
In 1991, I was arrested and tried for a crime I didn’t commit. Even though I was ultimately found not guilty in a court of law, did my arrest make me a criminal? At least for a while?
What about all the crimes that I’ve committed over my lifetime but was never caught or prosecuted for? Destroying private property in endless games of mailbox baseball (a game in which you score a home run by knocking a mailbox off its foundation with one blow from a baseball bat). Stealing shoes and a display table from a children’s shoe store. Making and selling fake driver’s licenses to underage college students. Picking up hitchhikers. Posing as a charity worker to steal money from would-be donors (a story that we will look at in close detail). Driving over a “No Parking” sign on the front lawn of a church. Smashing the windshield of my ex-stepfather’s car multiple times.
Do these criminal acts make me a criminal? Is my list of unprosecuted crimes lengthier than most? Are these crimes more egregious than most? These are questions that might be worth exploring in a blog post or magazine piece.
I used to walk the train tracks as a kid but I wouldn’t want my kids to walk the tracks even though it must be safe, right? how does a train sneak up on you? Not possible /
I really can’t say how piracy and crime led me to memories of time spent walking the train tracks as a child, but it did. It’s one of the benefits of Crash & Burn. It allows for random thoughts to enter your mind at any moment.
From a frighteningly early age, I was permitted to roam free, without any adult supervision. I would often leave my house just after sunrise, armed with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich in a paper bag, and would not return home until dinnertime. And some of that freedom was spent — for reasons I can’t explain today — walking with friends on the railroad tracks that cut through town. I hadn’t thought of this memory for years until this Crash & Burn session.
I write for several magazines, including Parents. This feels like the basis for a parenting essay or perhaps a blog post.
nail polish for women has weird and crazy names maybe I could do something with it / green red yellow blue gray / The Confederates wore gray uniforms, right? Seems like the least inspiring color — British wore red to conceal blood and make fellow soldiers /
Once again, I can’t explain how railroad tracks transitioned to nail polish, but this is Crash & Burn at its best. Random, incongruous, inexplicable thoughts colliding.
Regardless of how the mental leap was made, I happen to know a person whose job is to assign names to nail-polish colors. Something humorous could be done with these names, perhaps as part of my stand-up routine or as an amusing detail in a story.
I took that ASVAB test and would love to see the results — I had no idea what kind of job I might have landed in military — thank God I didn’t re-sign at 17 I wonder what / I took the pledge at 17 in a fake way and then had to take it again at 18 and refused thinking I would but does that make me a bad guy of some kind?/
Thoughts of Civil War soldiers led me to memories of my encounter with the United States Army. When I was seventeen, I took the military placement test, accepted a position in the army, signed a contract, and swore an oath in front of an American flag.
I knew that the contract and oath were only symbolic. Since I was only seventeen, I knew I would need to re-sign my contract and have the oath readministered when I turned eighteen and became legally eligible to sign. The recruiter used the symbolic contract and oath as a bit of pomp and circumstance to make me feel committed to the army, but I knew exactly what I was doing: opening a door to an opportunity that I might or might not walk through upon graduation from high school.
Ultimately, I chose not to re-sign the contract. As you know, I moved in with Bengi. The recruiter was not happy. He and I had quite the verbal confrontation. It was one of my first real arguments with an adult who was not a parent or a teacher. There is probably a story to tell here, and I hadn’t thought about that experience in years. I would also like to see the results of my testing, though they probably don’t exist anymore.
bad guy the black and the white is inconvenient Stephen King says that the side of the good is the side of the white which I like but sort of places it in unintentionally racist terms similar to “forgot the face of your father” is great but /
The phrase bad guy triggered thoughts of the way that good and evil are characterized in Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, which I had recently reread. King’s characters refer to the side of the good as t
he side of the white. I like the nonreligious nature of this characterization, but it also feels a little racist. I wish it didn’t.
Characters in the Dark Tower novels also say that a person who does a foolish thing has “forgotten the face of his father.” I like this expression a lot too, but it’s admittedly patriarchal. I also wish it wasn’t.
I can’t imagine doing much with these bits.
haven’t read Dad’s letter yet why am I so scared all I want is a relationship and /
The phrase the face of your father caused me to think of the face of my own father. I rarely see my dad and barely know him, but he sent me a letter three weeks ago. I have yet to open the envelope. I’m afraid of what he may have said or not said in the letter, so it remains sealed. I’m protecting my heart, at least for now.
I feel this might be the start of a story. I’m probably in the midst of the story, still waiting for the end.
Addendum: I opened the letter two weeks after this Crash & Burn session. I was sitting in a movie theater with my wife, watching commercials flash across the screen, when I removed the letter from my pocket, opened it, and read.
Elysha asked why I had chosen this odd moment to read my father’s letter — in a movie theater minutes before the trailers were set to begin. I explained that if my father’s words were disappointing or upsetting, I would have a two-hour comedy to help me forget my troubles. It was my way of protecting myself from possible pain. This has now become a story that I tell, beginning with the moment first recorded during my Crash & Burn session.
This was a productive session. Ten minutes of effort yielded:
•six potentially new stories
•three amusing anecdotes / possible stand-up bits
•three possible magazine articles / blog posts
•one possible addition to the résumé (pirate)
Stories are gold. Precious and priceless. Finding six potentially new stories is thrilling.
Even better, I recovered memories from my past that had been lost to me until I sat down to write. Forgotten moments that will remain with me now until the day I die.
With each recovered memory, my life feels more expansive and significant. The years gather greater meaning and purpose. Surprising, significant associations between the past and the present are discovered. My life becomes brighter and sharper and better with every memory that is uncovered.
The reason is simple: We are the sum of our experiences, the culmination of everything that has come before. The more we know about our past, the better we know ourselves. The greater our storehouse of memory, the more complete our personal narrative becomes. Our life begins to feel full and complete and important.
As I said, Crash & Burn is damn good for the soul.
Instead of the five minutes a day that I’ve asked you to dedicate to Homework for Life, this exercise requires about fifteen minutes at a time. Although I think it’s a highly productive exercise, I realize that fifteen minutes every day is asking a lot.
So I’m asking a lot. Do it every day. Close Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. Ignore your children for a quarter hour. Turn off the television. Find a quiet room with a lock on the door. Make it the bathroom or a closet if necessary. Give everyone in your home a cookie and tell them to go away for a little while.
Author Zadie Smith says, “Protect the time and space in which you write. Keep everybody away from it, even the people who are most important to you.” She’s right. Storytellers must selfishly guard their time, especially from the people they love most.
Storytellers need to know how to tell a good story, but they also need good stories to tell. Lots of them. Crash & Burn will not only give you the content you will need, but it will change the way you perceive yourself and your life in the process.
Give me fifteen minutes a day, and I’ll guarantee you some amazing results.
In case you were wondering, my father wrote me a beautiful and hilarious letter describing his recent foray into gardening. Avoiding the issues surrounding our relationship (or lack thereof), he offered me a glimpse into a life that I want to know better. Since that first letter, we have exchanged about a dozen in all and continue to write. I don’t know if my father and I will ever be able to spend much time together or open our hearts to each other, but these letters have been a blessing for me, and, I hope, for him.
STORY BREAK
Storytelling Instruction Can Apparently Be Romantic
In 2014, I was teaching a storytelling workshop in Hartford, Connecticut. There were about thirty people sitting in a group in front of me, and one by one, they were explaining what had brought them to the workshop on this day.
People attend my workshops for a wide range of reasons. There are business folks looking to improve their communication skills. Attorneys and doctors wanting to explain things better to clients and patients. Ministers and rabbis seeking ways to improve their sermons. Grandparents hoping to get their grandchildren to pay attention. Archivists with basements full of stuff that they want people to see. People looking to improve their dating prospects.
Knowing what has brought my students to a workshop can often help me cater to their needs. At this particular one, I had already learned that one couple had driven from Toronto and another man had driven from Philadelphia to spend the day with me.
I was not happy. I like a low bar. When people travel eight or ten hours to spend the day with you, the stakes are high.
I pointed to a couple in the front row that I thought I recognized. “And why are you two here?”
They explained that it was their wedding anniversary, and in lieu of a weekend in Vermont, they had chosen to spend their anniversary in my workshop. “We attend your Speak Up events all the time, so we thought this might be fun too.”
They had even brought a bottle of champagne.
It was an honor to have someone think that my workshop would be a good way to celebrate their anniversary.
It was also unfairly nerve-racking and set a bar way too high. I can be entertaining for ten or fifteen minutes onstage, but an eight-hour workshop? Not possible.
CHAPTER FIVE
First Last Best Worst: Great for Long Car Rides, First Dates, and Finding Stories
I spend a lot of time searching for stories. Perhaps you’ve noticed. In truth, if I retired from storytelling tomorrow, I’d still be on a relentless search for new stories.
Not only are stories the currency I need to continue entertaining audiences, but more importantly, finding new stories both fills in and fills out my life. They bring breadth and meaning to my life. Recalling a forgotten moment from your life or suddenly seeing it as more than what you once thought can expand the boundaries of your perceived life, while filling in gaps and connecting disparate memories into a more complete picture. Stories will both fill in the holes in the mental map of your life and help you to see how expansive that map truly is. It’s priceless.
Let me explain. As you know, when I was eighteen years old, I was kicked out of my childhood home. I wasn’t physically removed. My clothes weren’t tossed onto the street. My parents didn’t change the locks or stick a “No Trespassing” sign into the front lawn. The expectation was simply that I would move out and make my own way upon graduating from high school. To reinforce this expectation, I was given a set of bath towels and a microwave for my eighteenth birthday. Pots and pans and a toaster for Christmas. A vacuum cleaner on graduation day. The message was clear: it’s time to hit the road, kid.
Despite an excellent GPA and a list of extracurricular activities that included champion pole-vaulter, middling bassoonist, op-ed writer for the school newspaper, and founder of the short-lived chess club, no parent, teacher, or guidance counselor ever spoke the word college to me. While my friends were being called out of class to discuss SAT scores, safety schools, and financial aid, I sat quietly at my desk and waited for my turn.
It never came. I’ll never understand why. As a result, I came to believe that college was
not meant for me. I would have to find my own way.
This was not going to be easy for me. I was not a terribly brave person. I was spectacularly unadventurous. I was a creature of routine and habit. I hardly felt equipped to take on the world. I grew up in a tiny town of less than five thousand people and rarely strayed beyond the town limits. My family never went on vacations, never went to the beach or the mountains or anywhere in between. I never traveled anywhere unless I was tagging along with friends or flying to California with the marching band. Now all of that ordinariness was about to be upended with my graduation from high school. I was a small-town boy who needed to suddenly find his way in the world, and I wasn’t close to being ready.
During my junior year, I took my first steps to try to secure my future. I applied for a job at a McDonald’s restaurant in Milford, Massachusetts, and was hired on the spot. Within six months, I had been promoted to manager and was working full-time despite my full class load.
I turned out to have all the qualities needed in an effective restaurant manager. I was quick on my feet. Made good decisions. Kept my cool. I had the stamina required to work twelve-hour shifts without complaint. As the eldest of five and a longtime leader in the Boy Scouts, I had acquired an innate understanding of how to motivate a multitude of personalities. Most important, I had the desperate desire for someone — anyone — to finally notice me and acknowledge that I was capable of doing something well. As a result, I worked my ass off to become the best McDonald’s manager I could possibly be. During my senior year of high school, I was named Manager of the Year for my regional district — an award never before given to a high-school student. I would win that award three years in a row.
By the time I graduated from high school, I had a secure, albeit low-paying job that I could depend upon. A stable source of income.
But I still had no home. No prospects for a future residence. No idea how to rent an apartment or find a roommate. When the world lacked an internet, information was at a premium, and I had none. While my friends were worrying about college-acceptance letters and prom dates, I spent my senior year worrying about where I would be living in June.
Storyworthy Page 8