What On Earth Have I Done?

by Robert Fulghum

  With respect for his dignity and mine, I took him outside for burial. With a teaspoon I dug a small grave for him beneath a weed that is just coming into bright red bloom.

  A unique event, however trivial. The first fly funeral I had attended. I pondered the sense of mercy that stayed my hand from the Great Yellow Swatter of Death. What kept me from automatically smashing the life out of the vulnerable senior fly? Soft-hearted folly or seasoned wisdom?

  Being culturally wired to detest flies and kill them at any opportunity, what got into me? Briefly we were the only two living things in the room. Struggling on as long as possible. The spark of life in him and the spark of life in me was the same. We were connected. Live and let live.

  Now I understand what it means when people say:

  “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  That can happen.

  40

  Night Thoughts

  Cosmic notions rose up out of the swamplands of my mind last night. I sat outside on the porch at 3:00 a.m. wrapped in an old green bathrobe, focusing on the Milky Way with my binoculars.

  (If you are impressed that I should be stargazing at that hour of the night, don’t be. The goddammed packrats—more later on them—were having a potluck party in my bedroom wall, and as long as I was wide awake, I might as well use the opportunity to check the sky.)

  I am in a “Zone of Darkness.” Make of the statement what you will, but the term refers to a location favorable for the requirements of astronomy. Southeastern Utah is one of the few areas of the United States where lightscatter from centers of civilization is minimal—making viewable light from cosmic sources maximal.

  Simply said, you can see the stars from here.

  Lots and lots and lots of stars. Even more than that.

  So my subscriptions to astronomy magazines come to Moab, and I read them to be astonished. And, monthly, I am. For example, “Spiral galaxy NGC 300 in ‘Sculptor’ is larger than previously believed—by a factor of two or greater.” The increasing power of our telescopes means we can now see what we missed before: There are so many stars in that galaxy that it’s actually twice as big as we thought—maybe even larger.

  “And so what?” you ask.

  Here’s the kicker: The article goes on to explain that “Our galaxy is much more massive and brighter than NGC 300, so ours is probably twice as large as we previously thought—perhaps as much as 200,000 light years across.”

  Concentrate on the idea.

  Our galaxy. Twice as large as we thought.

  The news didn’t even make the daily papers.

  But I sense the implications of this information when I look up at the Milky Way and see a gazillion stars in a great sky river, and then look through binoculars and see a bazillion stars I couldn’t see before. All we lacked to be able to know the size of our galaxy was more sensitive equipment. And when our equipment improves again—which is likely—we will no doubt be even more astonished by what we can see and know.

  The Theory of Intelligent Design says that creation is so immense and so complex that a point is reached where its very incomprehensibility is evidence that a Being beyond us must have designed it. Which is like saying that since barnacles on the side of a cruise ship can’t possibly ever comprehend the complexities or purpose of the great passenger liner they’re riding on, there must be a God of the Barnacles who made it. And put it there just for the barnacles. And takes care of it for their benefit.

  No. I don’t think so.

  When I read that Einstein failed to figure out a Unified Theory of Everything and died thinking that the universe was ultimately incomprehensible, I realized I could scratch the problem off my own list. And I went back to focusing on the few things I did comprehend.

  Not knowing everything doesn’t mean not knowing some things.

  “Agnostic” is not a bad word.

  A limitation of tools and intelligence is not proof of anything except a limitation of tools and intelligence. The barnacles will never comprehend the cruise ship. They cannot. The barnacles, like us, are pretty much on their own. Meanwhile, like us, they are plunging on, holding on tight, sometimes enduring and sometimes enjoying the amazing ride.

  As I have for the last hour.

  41

  Bling!

  There is a Neotoma cinerea on the porch of my house.

  In a little wire cage—a humane trap.

  The creature is about the size of a squirrel, plain dusty brown, with dark chocolate eyes and a long, furry tail. He or she? How can I tell?

  If I could hold the cage up for your inspection, you might join the chorus of two visiting neighbor ladies, whose spontaneous response was:

  “Oooh . . . It’s so cute. Poor little thing. What is it?”

  Want to see it? Wait. First I’ll tell you the critter’s common names:

  Rat. Western Bushy-Tailed Pack Rat.

  “Oh, well, then . . .”

  Rat is a pejorative word. Rat = Bad.

  Hereinafter I’ll refer to my temporary captive as “Mrs. Packer.”

  One of her relatives worked its way into my house this winter while I was away. The caretaker set the humane trap and caught it. But not before it had eaten part of a cowhide rug and the soft parts of a pair of deerskin moccasins and the tongues of my hiking boots. And it made a nest inside the living-room wall, packing it with cactus parts, rabbit brush, and half a roll of shredded paper towels.

  After I arrived in early spring, the gnawing sounds in the wall in the middle of the deep velvet silence of the night told me what I did not want to know: there’s never just one Packer in a nest. And, quoting the Field Guide to Western Mammals, “Probably 1 or 2 litters per year of 2 to 6.”

  The Packers are nervous now that I’m here. The guide explains: “When alarmed, they will engage in hind-foot-drumming or produce a slow tapping sound.” That explains the midnight jazz concert:

  Diddy-drum-diddy-drum-gnaw-gnaw-diddy diddy drum . . .

  Worse. The guide goes on to say that a nest can be used by generations of the Packer Family—for hundreds of years—providing ecologists with clues to environmental changes. That’s because of the Packer’s peculiar habit of collecting: “cow dung, bones, rocks, sticks, cans, and especially any shiny objects to decorate the nest.” They protect their collection with pads of spiny prickly pear—the Packer Family security system. Wouldn’t want some bandit critter to burgle the family jewels.

  Interesting. But trouble, just the same. Sure, I’m going to trap them all, and deport them, but in the meantime, how about this “shiny objects” business?

  Curious, I collected odds and ends of shiny stuff and scattered it around the porch: chewing gum wrappers, a dime and a quarter, two or three small shards of a broken mirror, some wads of aluminum foil, a couple of metal screws, a steel ball bearing, and a beer can pull tab.

  The first to be snatched up was the chewing gum wrapper. Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit. I imagine the conversation in the nest when Mr. Packer showed up with the treasure. “Oh, no, not another damned gum wrapper!” said his spouse. “We’ve got way too many gum wrappers. The nest smells like fruit salad.”

  “Well, dear, there’s a bonanza out there.”

  “Great! Go get some more shiny stuff.”

  “How about a piece of mirror?”

  “Yes!”

  After the mirror, the next to disappear were the metal screws, the steel ball-bearing and the beer can pull-tab. And in two night’s work, all the shiny stuff was hauled away. Now it’s all inside my wall.

  Shiny stuff. What on earth does shiny stuff have to do with the survival of the Packer species? What kink in the genetic make-up drives these little furry creatures to collect and decorate their nest with shiny stuff?

  Can’t eat it. Can’t wear it. Can’t sell it.

  Can’t live without it.

  Long after this packrat encounter, I met a wildlife biologist on a plane and told my story. She explained: “They really do it. We call it ‘nuptial giftin
g’—because it’s meant to attract the opposite sex.”

  “No! Nuptial gifting? Get serious.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s true. And apparently it works.”

  When I went to town today to fetch more humane traps, I had an epiphany. Everywhere I looked I saw shiny stuff. Rings, watches, necklaces, earrings, belly-button hardware, belt buckles, hair clips, and pins. Silver, gold, platinum, diamonds, and rhinestones.

  And chrome—lots of chrome—on cars and motorcycles and dump trucks and bicycles and scooters and jeeps and dune-buggies and eighteen-wheel freight liners. Guy-style shiny stuff.

  The hip-hop generation calls shiny stuff “Bling-bling.” And the more glitz you wear on your body, the better. The more excited you will make members of the opposite sex. And since you can’t wear it all at any one time, you keep drawers of it at home. Mondo maximum Bling!

  Can’t eat it. Can’t live without it.

  As I write this, I stop and consider the Neotoma cinerea in the cage out on the porch. She’s quiet and still. Being a nocturnal creature by nature, I suppose she’s sleepy, having been up all night and now all day. She doesn’t know she’s on the cusp of fame because when I finish this her story gets flung out into the world. She’s probably thinking that . . . if she’d just foregone her gum wrapper mania . . . done without the mirror . . . she’d be home in bed by now.

  But she has to go. We can’t go on living together like this. Her drumming and gnawing in the middle of the night drives me crazy. And my pounding on the walls and shouting doesn’t faze her or her jazz combo.

  Having surveyed my own collection of shiny stuff, I do feel a sympathetic kinship with the Packers. When my own midden is dug up by some anthropologist a thousand years from now, he will wonder, as I do now, “What the hell use was all this shiny stuff?”

  Having selected a new neighborhood for her up the creek, I will carefully release Mrs. Packer this afternoon. And if I catch any more of her family, I’ll take them to the same place. And leave some starter shiny stuff around to make them feel at home as a gesture of empathetic goodwill.

  “Ooooh look! Gum wrappers!”

  Bling!

  42

  Guest Towel

  Sunrise. Good morning!

  Here, this dark green towel is for you.

  Far away and long ago are its threads.

  Woven from long-staple Egyptian cotton of the Nile delta,

  Dyed in the vats of Istanbul.

  Shipped across wide seas and plains to this place.

  Washed in water from an aquifer a thousand feet deep,

  ten million years old.

  Hung out in yesterday afternoon’s sunlight

  In the clear high desert air at seven thousand feet.

  Soaking up indigo from the sky.

  Verdigris is the name of its color.

  All through the night the towel remained outside.

  Stardust from the Milky Way fell on it.

  When the thunderstorm rolled through this

  valley at three in the morning,

  Lightning recharged the towel’s batteries.

  Raindrops blown from the Gulf of Mexico soaked

  into the towel.

  The night wind dried the towel.

  The morning sun ironed the towel flat.

  The towel is ready.

  Take it—it’s just for you.

  Stand outside in the chilly morning under the outdoor shower.

  (Be careful—there’s frost on the deck boards.)

  Wash yourself under the steamy water.

  And when you are wet and warm and clean,

  Reach for this towel, and hold it to your face.

  Breathe deep. Smell it.

  Dry yourself slowly, slowly.

  Wrap the towel around you and stand before the mirror.

  Look.

  You are clothed in a royal garment.

  The time being is all you have,

  And for the time being, the news of your realm is good.

  43

  Charley-Up-a-Tree

  A Moab “true story”—part fact, part gossip, part imagination.

  Charley has been up in a tree in his own yard for almost a week.

  Big old cottonwood with a four-limb pocket at the first branching.

  The place in a tree any kid would say is perfect for a tree house.

  Charley’s up there with a sleeping bag and basic supplies.

  He’s attached himself to a limb with a rope and some bungee cords.

  He doesn’t want to fall out.

  And he’s not coming down on his own. Ever.

  ________

  Shirley, his wife, found him up there Friday night.

  She stood under the tree staring at him, and he stared back.

  She knew why he was up there, so there was no use asking.

  She thought that bygod he got up there, he could bygod get down.

  Then the neighbors noticed.

  But he wouldn’t talk to them.

  He knew they knew—and shared Shirley’s position.

  “Get down on your bygod own, you silly bastard.”

  Even Charley’s friend Willy couldn’t get him to come down.

  But Willy did take a rain tarp and some more food up to him.

  There was talk of involving a minister or a psychiatrist.

  But everybody knows what Charley thinks of “people-shrinkers.”

  Three days later someone finally called 911.

  And the fire department came—they had been expecting the call.

  Charley wouldn’t talk to them or use the ladder they put up.

  It’s a small town. Volunteer fire department.

  They already knew he was up there. And why.

  Some of the firemen secretly admired him.

  Two of them considered joining him.

  Married guys with issues of their own.

  There’s no law against his being up in his own tree.

  Though people are starting to drive by and stare and honk.

  And some kids threw dirt clods at him, but he’s too high up to hit.

  Eddie the cop told him he could be cited as a public nuisance.

  But Pam from the tourist office said he could be a local attraction.

  Maybe they could charge for photo opportunities.

  Nobody really understands.

  He’s not coming down.

  Ever.

  Charley read a book about that young woman tree-hugger.

  She stayed up in a redwood tree for two years.

  She finally got her way, too. Saved the tree.

  As for Charley, he’s not so sure of the outcome of his exile.

  His old cottonwood isn’t worth saving.

  But something will happen. Sooner or later.

  _________

  Of course, all of this—all of it—is a daydream, so far.

  Charley’s in his Lazy-Boy armchair staring at the weather on TV.

  He can imagine his move to the tree.

  He’s talked about doing it around town so long that both he and a few others think that maybe he actually did it.

  But he hasn’t really done it.

  Because the reason is so damn dumb.

  He’d have to leave town if people knew.

  See, it’s about the eggs.

  For thirty years he’s eaten the eggs Shirley cooks.

  He wants over-easy-and-runny; she cooks sunny-side-up-and-hard.

  They don’t talk about it anymore.

  He hates the way Shirley cooks his eggs.

  He knows. She knows. What’s to say?

  But it drives him mad.

  So he eats his eggs and plans his move.

  And considers how things might play out—the consequences.

  In truth, it’s not just the eggs.

  Their whole life has become one big stalemate.

  If he just up and left, she’d win.

  Killing her is illegal, and the eggs aren’t cooked any better in jai
l.

  Killing himself is painful and messy.

  Cannibalism is possible, but she’d probably taste as bad as her eggs.

  And he’s bygod not going to cook his own eggs.

  That’s women’s work.

  In thirty years the only solution he’s come up with is tree exile.

  And Monday afternoon, bygod, he’s going to do it.

  If it doesn’t rain.

  44

  A New Year, New Broom

  Many people are missing from Moab this week. The ones who went off to visit relatives. The ones who went away to the mountains to ski. And those who went to Mexico or Hawaii or Florida to bask on a beach. Me, I like being around when the town is deserted and quiet. Traveling during the holidays is a nightmare. I am where I want to be. So I have stayed put.

  When I have come across my fellow Stay-Putters in town, I’ve asked what they’ve been up to in this calm between holidays. Like me, they observe the Season of Small Rituals. The marking of a new cycle in a low-key way.

  Here’s my accumulated list of what they did:

  Turned the mattresses on the beds.

  Defrosted the refrigerator.

  Paid year-end bills and balanced a checkbook.

  Cleaned out and reorganized a drawer, a closet, a basement, a garage.

  Bought new tires for a car and had it serviced.

  Bought new bathroom soap and shampoo.

  Made kids clean up their rooms—as well as can be expected.

  Had a manicure, pedicure, haircut, or hairdo.

  Cleaned out the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

  Bought new sponges and dishtowels for the kitchen.

  Revised an address book based on Christmas card receipts.

  Made two trips to the Good Will with Stuff.

  Washed out and sanitized all the plastic wastebaskets.

  Me, I bought a new broom. The old-fashioned kind. Handmade, heavy-duty one. Plain wood handle, sweet-smelling pale yellow straw with black stitching. The old one was worn down and deformed from being much used and left standing too long in a corner. And, on close examination, it looked and smelled rancid from all the grubby uses it had been put to in the year past.