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TThis all happened a long time ago. Back when empathy, out of the blue, got hot, got fashionable. Remember? Anyway, this all happened back then.

Here's how the interview started. The very questions. Made me wonder if I really did want to be a teacher.

Is wilderness wise? Do trees talk? Can bees, moss and rainbows teach us everything we need to know? Should we care about others? Are there lessons, crucial, life saving lessons, if we'd only open our eyes, open our minds, to be had from a closer look at ferns, stumps and blueberries? When was the last time you lifted a finger to help a stranger?

Sidney, the guy asking all the questions, had a theory: empathy done right, done his way, was going to revolutionize teaching.

That's where the interview came in. Apply if you've never taught a day in your life but want to the ad said. Also, must have had a variety of jobs, more the better.

Sidney was hand picking 12 would-be teachers to test his theory, prove himself right.

"Shitty jobs" he said , "tell me about shitty jobs you've had. Shittier the better. Jobs that made you want to puke. Jobs that made your skin crawl and clocks stop. Give me symptoms. Make me feel as trapped in those dead end jobs as you did."

If he picked me I'd get a stipend. Not much, but more than the nothing I had in the bank just then.

Figuring that a puny paycheck was better than no paycheck I gave the man what he wanted, shit job symptoms galore.

The whole time I knew him Sidney was never very far from a ball point pen or a legal pad. The man took notes constantly, furiously. Filled eight pages easy on my interview alone.

For all that writing though he never once let us read any of it, see what he was taking down, leaving out. He liked to keep us in the dark, keep us guessing.

To this day I don't know why he picked me, which shitty job or cluster of gripes put me over the top, gave me that extra little edge. He didn't offer so I'll never know.

Training kicked off with a week to "learn about learning" in the wilds of northern New Hampshire.

We all met at a grocery store parking lot near the college at six in the morning then followed Sidney straight north. Three or four hours later we stopped at a rocky little pull off at the base of a mountain.

After we got all the boxes and bags of provisions and gear out of Sidney's van he told us what was what for the week.

"One thing your acceptance letters didn't say is that sacrifice is an important part of this program. How will you ever know what a struggle it is for some people to learn unless you struggle too? That's what this week is all about. You sacrifice, you struggle, you learn about learning the hard way. My rules are simple. You smoke, you have to quit. Cold turkey, no exceptions. You drink coffee, tea or pop to get yourself going in the morning, you have to quit. Also, no sweets, chips or junk food allowed. You with me? Good, let's get this stuff sup to the cabin."

The cabin was at the top of a steep, rocky trail. The main room had eight or nine beat up picnic tables spread around, a fireplace and, at the far end of the room a kitchen. We had a wood stove for cooking, sulfur ripe well water for drinking and a strip of nailed down tin for food prep.

Up a set of split log stairs was the sleeping room. It was long dark and empty. Inch thick, wood smoke ripe pallets were spread around for our comfort. Two dim bulbs, one at one end of the room, one at the other offered what little light there was to be had.

Beans were a constant in our diet so the one outhouse we all shared was in steady demand.

Bathing was supposed to happen in a snow melt stream out back. None of us bathed.

Sidney started right off by dividing us up into teams. Each team, by turns, took care of meals. Each day, morning and afternoon, teams had to teach a lesson outside using our surroundings to make whatever points we cared to make.

"Debrief" Sidney explained, "debrief is essential. We will debrief each evening until we get consensus on what we have learned about learning, about teaching and about life."

All of us knew this or that about nature. Bits and pieces. Nothing certain, systematic or worth putting out as a lesson. So, we lied. Made things up. Improvised lessons from half remembered nonsense we'd read, heard or thought we'd read or heard.

This was exactly what Sidney was hoping for. Gave him plenty of fodder for the nightly debrief.

"What did it feel like" he'd ask each evening, "trying to teach a subject you didn't know anything about? And students, can you remember anything you were taught today? One single thing?"

"I picked each and every one of you because you've all had shitty jobs. You know in your guts what it feels like to be trapped, to despise what you are being forced to do."

"What if a class you were teaching made a kid feel as trapped and crazy as the shittiest of your shit jobs made you feel? What then?"

"Maybe its Math class if you never quite caught on how to multiply, divide or do decimals. Maybe, if you were born with two left feet, its Gym class. How about Spanish, French or Speech if you stutter, if you're shy?"

"And maybe, just maybe this subject they hate, this subject they can't stand, maybe its your subject. The subject you love. Subject you are up in front of them rattling on and on about. Then you see it. See it in their eyes, see it all over their faces. They'd rather be hung, shot, stabbed or ripped in two by sharks than spend one more second trapped there in your class, in your subject. What then?"

"Do you just keep talking, saying things nobody cares about, things nobody is listening to? Do you just pretend that nothing is wrong? Pretend and keep talking? If you do you'll fit right in because that's what nine out of ten teachers today do all the time."

"But what might happen, what just might happen if you quit talking? If you shut up and tried to feel what they were feeling? What then?"

"What if you tried a little empathy right then, right there? Saw what they were seeing, felt what they were feeling? What a blooming, what a blossoming, in you, in them might break loose, break free?"

By debrief at the end of day three what was blooming and blossoming wasn't empathy. It was a congress of stinks.

Our mouths were mossy and our hair lank. We were itchy and twitching, our clothes dirt stiff, sweat stiff. We smelled of BO and wood smoke, burnt onions, burnt beans, mildew and damp.

Day four brought a surprise. Sidney had arranged for two professional rock climbers to take us out for an "extreme learning experience." In the morning they would rope us in, give us helmets and walk us through how to climb straight up a sheer rock face. Then, in the afternoon, they'd have us all repel down the same rock face with nothing but empty air below us.

Me, I'm terrified of heights. Always have been. And this long standing fear of mine that can make me suddenly shake and shiver, blink and cry, its just fine with me. I have it, I know it and I avoid heights. Simple as that.

So when I froze on the rock face that morning, nine or ten feet up, it wasn't unexpected. I'd told Sidney and I'd told the guides that I was terrified of heights. That I didn't want to climb up or hop down a mountain.

Sidney, when they eventually talked me down, was delighted. Convened a debrief on the spot.

"What did it feel like up there, hanging on for dear life?"

"It scared the shit out of me. I thought I was going to die. Fall and die."

"Team? What's the lesson here? What's the learning?"

Sidney filled page after page while everybody but me put in their two cents worth. Agreement all around that fear and terror put a definite crimp in listening and learning.

When everybody but me had climbed up I hauled the rest of the gear, the bag of granola for lunch and followed one of the rock climbers up a steep walking trail.

After lunch Sidney and the guides convinced me that I needed to "confront my fears, give it another try."

There was a brief bit of rock shelf with a boulder in the center. One guide had a rope around the boulder while the other guy made it fast hundreds of feet below.

Everybody agreed that I shouldn't go first. I should watch one person repel down, get the hang of it, but not wait too long, wait and maybe loose my nerve.

The first person up was a tiny woman with big glasses. They had her in a rope harness around her waist. She didn't want to do it, did not want to walk backwards over a cliff. Didn't want to and said so.

More talking. Talk, talk, talking. Another on the spot debrief.

Still shaky after all the talking she finally agreed. Agreed so long as the guy who'd be playing the rope out assured her that she would not, could not fall. Would not get hurt, had no chance whatsoever of getting hurt. And, her last demand, that he talk her through every move, every single move, start to finish.

Next in line, I was standing as far back as I could get, a helmet on my head, a rope sling knotted around my waist.

One second she had baby stepped, backwards, to the edge of the cliff, stopped on command and asked what to do next. How to begin to repel down the rock face, out over infinity. Then she was gone. Empty space, shrieks of terror, her booted feet hopping in and out of view.

When they hauled her, weeping and moaning, up onto the rock ledge and safety I had long since torn myself free of the helmet and rope sling.

Sidney, ball point and pad at the ready, convened yet another empathy huddle, another on the spot debrief.

Twice a coward, I was the subject. The woman who'd just been saved was left to her despair. She could not, just then, form words.

Now I don't know about you, about when, for you, enough is enough, is too much. Evening debrief after my two rock climbing humiliations did it for me.

Mud streaked and itchy, twitching in our sweat stiff clothes, we sat cross legged on the floor of the cabin awaiting Sidney's lead off question.

"Jim" he asked, looking my way, "what did you learn about learning today?"

"Sidney, I learned that hanging my sorry ass off the side of a mountain scares the shit out of me. That and nothing more."

I stood then and made my pungent, silent way up the split log steps to my stinky pallet. Stinky pallet, silence and sleep.

I slept late the next morning. Slept through breakfast. Lolled on my pallet until everyone had left for the morning lesson in the wild.

Then and only then I rooted out my least stiff socks and pants, my least stinky shirt, dressed and ambled downstairs.

I had, for company, two options.

Sidney, who'd sprained an ankle rock climbing, had his bad foot propped up on a pillow. He was sitting at a picnic table back by the kitchen. He was writing on one of his legal pads.

By the front door was silent Scott, the only local in our hand picked crew. A good rock climber and a guy who'd said next to nothing at all our debrief sessions, he was doing something with a backpack.

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.