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He was quietly, carefully tamping his backpack from the inside to make it look full. Acknowledging my interest he asked, in a low voice, if I wanted to do a bit of time traveling.

Who was I to say no?

"Follow my lead" he whispered, "I'll handle Sidney."

With a grunting show of effort I helped him on with his empty backpack.

"Sidney" he said in a deep and serious voice, "I'm going to take Jim out climbing, coach him one on one, help him face his fears. Love to have you along but that would probably be too dangerous, you with a bum ankle and him afraid of heights."

His theory playing out before his eyes, a smiling Sidney waved us off, wrote furiously.

Not a musical bone in my body, I honked with mad delight on the harmonica Scott chucked my way once we were hop running down the rocky trail to cars, towns and freedom.

Our first stop was a truck stop where we bought clean, cheap clothes, bars of soap, took hot showers for a buck apiece, then rode stools at a bright lit counter.

"Decade" he said, "name the decade."

Looking up and down the ancient, once purple counter, over at the bulb top, bright lit jukebox, up the walls at the deer antlers, back at the much chipped, thick china mugs I offered, "1930's?"

"Close" he said, "not bad for a city boy."

Breakfast all week had been gruel or granola. Unsweetened gruel, fruitless granola.

Our antidote was the Trucker's Special: three eggs, scrambled, sunny side or over easy, ham, bacon or sausage, your choice, spuds, pancakes or both, toast and a bottomless cup of coffee.

By late morning we'd settled in at a smoky, log cabin bar that was, we both agreed, locked in a 1950's time warp.

Cheeseburgers came in plastic mesh baskets. Bright plastic mesh lined with wax paper, a single greasy sheet of wax paper under the fries, pickle and cheeseburger.

The jukebox played Doo Wop, Elvis, Hank Williams and a variety of same sounding break up songs.

Through the day and well into the night we played pool, drank cold beer, shouted horrible, horrible things about empathy and education and smoked short stinky cigars.

By eight that night, with rain dumping down, lightning everywhere and us nowhere to be found, they were giving us up for dead. Smart money had me freeze too high up for safety, panic and pull us both loose, get us both killed.

Chaos, I should say at this point, like all forms of perfection, cannot be planned. Wouldn't be chaos if it could.

By the time we'd stumbled, slipped and fallen up mountain with our bags of goodies the evening debrief had gone full tilt somber.

Teams were planning where to go looking for our bodies at first light.

We had, between us, no clear plan. Back lit buy lightning, heralded by thunder, we entered like apparitions, spreading our arms, spontaneously, in a silent benediction.

Scott, taking charge, raised a hand, freezing everyone where they sat, cross legged, in the debrief circle.

He became, then, a fire eater. A preacher perfect fire eater loosed upon the earth to save our very souls.

Hoisting high a see through, jumbo pack of Oreo cookies in one hand, a bottle of cheap red wine in the other, he declared his ministry open for business.

"On your knees" he shouted, "on your knees brothers and sisters to receive the life giving goodness of Oreo, the delights of cheap red, sweet red wine."

Moving among his flock he dispensed a single Oreo on each out stretched tongue. I followed behind offering wine or dented, discount cans of Canadian Ace beer.

When all had taken of the Oreo they were welcomed to feast freely on our bounty. Chips, cookies, candy bars and cup cakes were taken with delight. Cigarettes and cigars, stinky little cigars, were lit up all round.

Hugging a legal pad to his chest Sidney, just as full chaos broke, hopped upstairs and out of sight.

A banging of lids, pots, ladles and spoons on walls, floor and tables. Much howling, solo and in unison. The gleeful making of blue air and smoke rings with cigarettes, with cigars. Clapping. Stomp dancing. Line dancing. Dancing up walls. Dancing on tables. Scream and sweat, hoot and fall dervish dancing.

A melee. A chaos. A freedom.

As the hand picked team slept away the next morning Sidney was up and at it, getting everything ready for two surprise workshops. Two take charge, stop the nonsense workshops.

Sleep stupid and scratching, cowed by sunlight and excess, we were all dressed, smirking and back downstairs by midday.

First up was the Know-Me-Necklace workshop.

At each picnic table Sidney had laid out small pieces of paper, each with a neat hole punched through at the top, cut lengths of string and a scatter of pencils.

We were told to draw six pictures on the little pieces of paper then make a necklace out of them with a knot or two between to keep them separate.

"Each picture," Sidney explained, "must reveal something important about who you are. Something that only your very best friends, or maybe only your family would know about you."

Once we'd strung our squiggles and put our Know-Me-Necklaces on Sidney filled us in, told us what to do next.

"Stand up, pair up and spread out around the room."

"Okay, you will only have five minute a round so you have to work fast, not waste a second. Each round one of you will look at one of the pictures on your partner's necklace and try to find out what the picture means to them. You can ask as many questions as you like but you only have five minutes to find out."

"Now, and this is crucial, if it's your picture and they're way off base, don't help them out. Answer only what they ask and nothing more. No hints. After each round I'll give you five minutes to debrief. That's the time to fill in the gaps, tell the whole story behind the picture. You with me? Go."

We tried, most of us, but goddamn: doodles, smudgy doodles of who knows what?

Teepee hatchet or can opener? Spaghetti tornado or self portrait? Who could say?

We leaned in close and tried not to laugh, tried to play the game. But really, squiggle necklaces around stinky, dirt daubed necks? What would you do?

Scatter of giggles, then laughing, out and out, head back laughing.

Chaos imminent, Sidney called time.

"I'm disappointed" he announced, "disappointed in all of you. This is serious business. Obviously, you are not ready to concentrate, to focus. Let's break for lunch, clear our minds out, then get back at it. Which team does lunch today?"

After lunch and clean up Sidney led us outside. Wanting new teams for this workshop, he had us count off by threes.

There was a small meadow just to the left of the cabin. Sidney had everything in place.

He'd slit the sides of cardboard boxes, flattened them out and lined them up at one end of the meadow. Beside each he'd laid a pole. A long stout pole.

When each of the newly picked trios was on their flattened box he told us what was what. These were not boxes at all that we were standing on but rafts, small, tippy rafts. And what were they floating on, these precarious little rafts? Peanut butter. A raging sea of boiling peanut butter.

"Teamwork, problem solving and leadership" he told us in his take charge voice, "that's what this workshop is all about."

The rules were simple. We had to succeed or fail, live or die as a team. Using only what we had we had to get everybody safely across the little wildflower meadow, the raging sea of boiling peanut butter.

"Speed is not the point. Being first is not the point. Solving problems as a team, that's the point. Anybody who steps off or falls off their raft is dead. Dead and gone that very instant. No exceptions, no resurrections. So, work together, solve problems together, survive together. Questions? Good. You may begin."

Most of us were still sorting out how six hands could work one pole when we heard the first scream.

Shrieking, writhing, jerking wildly this way and that was Preacher Scott. He'd leapt free of his team's raft and was fast losing a life and death battle with boiling peanut butter.

When, after horrific struggle, he shuddered and howled no more, when at last his trials were over and he lay still, eyes closed, there was a wide beatific smile on his face.

Furious, Sidney marched his way, straight into the raging sea of certain death, no exceptions, no resurrections. He demanded that Scott get up, get back on his raft and quit goofing.

"I'm dead" Scott replied, eyes still closed, hands folded on his chest in repose. "Rules are rules."

Maybe one minute went by, maybe two, but surely no more before we were all writhing and dying, jerking, burning up, wailing our last.

Perhaps the tiny mountain wildflowers we crushed in our collective death agony forgave us. Sidney never did.

This all happened a long time ago. Back when empathy, out of the blue, got hot, got fashionable. Has it stuck with me, that brief bit of anarchy in the wilds of northern New Hampshire? Has it been useful? Helped me out of any jams? No question about it.

So, what was my "learning?" My consensus of one after a solo debrief decades after the fact? Beware of people who say the world is one way and one way only. Beware of people who don't smile or laugh, people who take notes then want to solve experiences like math problems. People who deliver conclusions with a frown, deliver them and expect you, with an appropriately serious look on your face, to agree. My advice? Flee them on sight. If trapped by one, meet them with foolishness, complete and utter foolishness.

Oh, and dancing, mad dancing. Tonic, by my lights, for most all ills. Recommend it any time, anywhere. ~

Despite the craziness described above, Jim Kelly '74G says he got good training to teach at UNH. He taught for years, worked as a traveling salesman, and to his endless delight has been married for 37 years to beautiful Annie, a wonderful artist, and has two fine, grown, red-bearded sons who, like their old man, like to laugh and tell stories.

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