I am guessing I was twelve or thirteen at the time. My father was teaching summer school at what was then the Appalachian State Teacher's College in Boone, North Carolina. Dad and mother and I lived in an apartment on the second floor above the student center. My activities included tennis, exploring Howard's Knob and other nearby mountains, fishing trips, playing trumpet in a summer band, and working on my Boy Scout merit badges.

Our family attended the local Presbyterian church, sometimes had Sunday meals at the Boone Hotel, and often went for drives along the Blue Ridge Parkway and other mountain and country roads in this beautiful region of Western North Carolina. "Going for a drive in the country" was a favored activity of our family, which I enjoyed then and still enjoy. We would stop at small country stores and I would usually get an ice cream or popsicle. Sometimes we would play "count the cows" as we drove, and I would try my best to win. Our apartment had a fire escape which provided my favorite entrance and exit. I remember these as happy days. But there is another memory as well.

I sometimes attended meetings of a local Boy Scout troop. I remember the scout leader as a working class mountain man who rode a Harley Davidson motorcycle. He was plain spoken and somewhat arrogant. I never liked him much, but I did like it when he offered to take me for a ride on his motorcycle. And not just a short ride. He said he needed to go to a distant town and I could go with him. I asked my parents if I could do this and they said alright.

The scoutmaster picked me up as promised and I got on behind him and we rode through the country. It was thrilling. I wished my friends could see me. We got to wherever he was going and he talked with whoever he had business with. When it came time to head back he asked me if I would like to drive. I did not know what to think or say. I told him I had never driven a motorcycle and did not know how. He assured me that it was easy and he would help me and teach me and everything would be fine. He insisted and I finally agreed.

He started the Harley, put me on the big seat in front, and got on behind me. Starting out, he basically drove the thing with me in front, but once on open road be showed me about the controls and gave me the handlebars. At first he helped with driving, like a piano duet, but I soon caught on and was able to drive without assistance. It was then that he brought up the subject of sex, asking me if I knew about girls, if I ever saw one naked, and if I ever played with myself and did it feel good.

His hands moved down to my crotch and he began to unzip my pants. My hands were glued to the handlebars. I was confused, afraid, embarrassed, and wishing to be somewhere else. I feared crashing the motorcycle and I feared resisting this man, even if I knew how. He pulled out my penis and began stroking it, asking me if I had ever measured it and if I knew how long it was. All of these details are as vivid in my memory now as they were then.

Eventually his fondling produced an erection. Then we came into the edge of town and he quit and zipped me back up. That was all. I do not recall that he tried to take me anywhere or do anything else. And I don't recall him warning me not to tell about this, although you would think he might have.

I never even considered telling my parents. Although he was a college professor with a PhD, my father was a mountain man as well. Had I told him this story there would have been immediate repercussions. He would have taken me to confront this man, to accuse him face to face as my father listened with growing anger. I was a shy young boy with a deformed large foot that kids made fun of. I mostly avoided girls and confrontations. I kept everythig to myself.

I did not go back to Boy Scout meetings for a long time. Why I went back that one last time I can't remember, but I remember vividly what happened when I did. The scoutmaster saw me come in, looked surprised, tried to remember my name and couldn't, and his greeting was: "Hey, do you still have that hard-on?" There was a sense of his accomplishment in the tone of voice.

He said this in full hearing of the other boys. Thinking back on it from an adult perspective, I can only assume that his attention to me had been practiced with other boys of his troop. Some, at least, perhaps all.

Thankfully, I was not scarred for life by this experience–nothing even close. I rarely think of it except when reminded by something like the Penn State accounts. I put it in the category of bygone shame. And probably more people than we imagine have such a story to tell, if only they could or would.

Shame is long lasting, at least in my experience. I can still feel embarrassments I experienced long ago, even though my rational self declares that I should "get over it" and "move on." This explains why victims of sexual abuse are reluctant to share their stories, much less to face their abusers. 

The family farm he came back to was a few miles from the Tennessee River in the eastern part of the state. He was a liked and likeable man with a lot of friends. He mostly wore overalls except on Sundays when he did dress up some. He worked the farm his father had worked, raising cattle, hogs, corn, hay, tobacco, and various fruits and vegetables. He had built the house himself from timber that grew on his own land. This included mature trees of walnut and cherry. He had build every piece of furniture for his home in the wood working shop in the basement. The walnut gun cabinet in my downstairs now was built there also.

Farm work slowed down in the winter months after the tobacco was brought in, cured, and sold. That's when he took to the road. He had converted a used hearse to carry the tools that filling stations need. He would start out loaded and be gone for a week or two at a time. He was such a likeable, friendly man that the station owners looked forward to his return and put off buying things they needed so they could buy from him. If the station had changed hands, he promptly made friends of the new owners. He was the kind of guy that even if you had only known him briefly, it seemed like you had known him all your life.

He had an inventive, inquisitive, always-learning mind. I came to his home once and found he was raising a family of squirrels in the back yard. He had found a nest of orphan baby squirrels and built a home for them. The home had numerous rooms, devoted to sleeping, meals, and recreation. He was fond of watching them run inside the spinning exercise wheel he constructed. When the babies were grown, he opened the doors and watched them run away.

One day he decided he wanted a boat. He wanted a large boat to take his friends out on, several families at a time. They sell boats like that, of course, but he decided to build one himself. He had never built a boat, but he was a good welder (having done that for the Navy) and he believed he could figure it out. He read a lot about boat building, drew up his plans, built a large shed to build the boat in, bought a lot of scrap metal and other things, and began to lay the hull. He also build a wagon to haul the boat to the river with.

It took him two years to build his boat. As the boat took shape, word spread around the community and people came around to see it. He was somewhat like Noah in the Bible because there was no water in sight of his house and people wondered if the thing would ever be finished and make it to the water. When people joked about his boat he smiled and joked with them.

But his boat was no joke. After he finished and launched it the boat looked factory made. Be bought himself a white shirt and pants, and a boat captain's hat, and took all his friends out just like he planned.

I was a struggling young college student at the time. This man took a liking to me and did a lot to help me along. He did things I had no way to repay, and I moved away indebted. Some years later though, I did do something for him.

I had taken up flying and owned a small, fabric covered, two seat airplane. I took off one day and flew up the Tennessee Valley to his farm, diving down low over his house until he heard the noise, came outside, and waved. Then I circled around and landed in a field nearby. He came running up, delighted to see me and amazed at someone landing a plane in his cow pasture.

The man had been born and raised on this land, in this community with his friends. But he had never seen it from the air. And there's nothing like the view of the land you get from a small plane flying low. He folded into the back seat and up we climbed into the sky. Then we were looking down on the tops of trees and the never-seen views of the landscape fitting together. There was his house, and the barn, and the shed where the boat was built. We circled low around and found the church, the country store, the homes of neighbors and friends, the river nearby. People looked up at us, close enough to wave. 

And then I began to climb, circling above his land. The farm diminished and took its place among the neighbor farms, and those diminished and took their place as a patch county. Higher we climbed until his county became a small, unbounded part of the greater Tennessee Valley. We studied the river winding, and how the towns lay, and which town was which, like astronauts or angels. And it was wondrous to my old friend.

All life was wondrous to him, the man from Saint Peter's Room.

Getting no initial response, he reminded me once of his request and then gave up. He likely thinks I forgot, but obviously I didn't.

I have pondered my reluctance to give advice. One reason is that I have always been uncomfortable with the idea of talking someone into something. I like to make up my own mind, and I like to let others do the same. If I have a used car for sale and you are interested, I will spend more time telling what is wrong with the car than why you should buy it. I would not do well as a used car salesman.

Another problem with advice is that even if we are able to see things clearly from our own view point, it is still our view point. Each sitz em leiben (life situation) is different. Regardless of the proverb, what is good for the goose isn't necessarily good for the gander. 

Despite these reservations, I decided to give it a try. I will spare you the disclaimers I'm tempted to begin with. 

(1) Live modestly and within your means. Do not place yourself in debt to expensive cars or houses or expensive anything. Do not allow the banks to enslave you with credit card debt. Charge only what you can afford to pay off before they begin adding interest and penalties. 

(2) Whatever you decide to do, do it the best you can. There is a right and a wrong way to go about most things. Find what you think is the right way and give it your best. If you discover you were wrong, learn your lesson and move on. Don't miss opportunities by hesitating to act. Learn something from every mistake.

(3) Abstain totally from drinking alcohol and using harmful drugs. Addiction to those is a grave risk. No one was ever harmed by living free of them. Many are enslaved and ruined by their abuse, and you could be another.

(4) Do not continue being troubled by hurts, embarasements, or setbacks. Let these go and move on. It is better to forgive than to carry anger and resentment. Cultivate a happy and positive attitude in everything you do.

(5) Try to engage in vigorous physical exercise every single day. Eat natural, healthful foods and cultivate restful sleep. Mind the health of your body more than physical appearance. Nature starts us out healthy but as we get older we must work to maintain it.

(6) Do something generous and unselfish every day. Do something unexpected that helps another person. Treat others as you would like to be treated in their situation. Take it as a challenge to get along with difficult people. 

(7) When you face a decision, you will be tempted to choose what is easy, or profitable, or popular, or desired of you by others. Instead, consider what is the right thing, the moral thing, the worthy thing in this situation. I cannot tell you what that will be, but I can tell you that a guilty conscience is a heavy load to carry.

(8) Study and learn the things that bring you joy and satisfaction, and cultivate those things. Reward yourself for completing an unpleasant task. 

(9) Understand that something which is popular is usually either silly or harmful. Pay little attention to popular opinion. Ignore advertising, and especially that of politicians and corporations. 

(10) Avoid comparing yourself with others. Someone is always smarter or richer or more attractive. Others will always fall below you by these measures. None of this matters much. What matters is what you make of yourself and your opportunities. Do not envy those who seem to do better or pity those who seem to do less. Appearances are superficial.

(11) Educate yourself as broadly as possible, including history and art and music and geography and science and literature and countless other subjects that some may call useless and impractical. Learn to sit still and alone and unhurried, and be pleasurably occupied with your thoughts. 

(12) Appreciate the natural world of which we are part. Be kind to animals and a friend, especially with a good dog. See as much of the world as you can before you die. Sleep out in the wilderness and wonder at the stars. 

(13) Do not keep your opinions to yourself, even when you know they will be unpopular. Something dies when you bury your feelings and go along when you believe the group is wrong. It is sometimes risky to speak the truth, but it is always hurtful to surpress it.

There you have my list for now. I may add others later. I wish I had done better with these.

The store keeper's teenage daughter was at their home next door. The country store was downstairs and the family lived upstairs above it. She was out in the back yard beside a dirt pile the size of a small truck. She with a heavy digging maddock and swinging furiously, desperately at this pile. A rather pretty girl who had "gotten herself" pregnant with a high school boy. Neither of them had wanted this, nor had his parents or hers, nor had their churches, or this small farming community. Nor had I, their young college student part-time pastor.

I have wondered what may have given this girl the idea of that digging. Maybe an experienced girl friend, maybe a magazine article, maybe even a whispered suggestion by her own mother. Whatever it was, she went at it as if it were her last hope in life.

I did not understand at first. It took my wife explaining. We watched from our window her desperation. Trying to dig her way out of the mess she was in. By herself, because the boy was in no such dilemma. After all, the baby might not even be his. No way to prove it, on way or another.  And he is mad with her because he says she is trying to put the blame on him. Just leave him out of it. His is finished with her.

Abortions were illegal in those days, but miscarriages were not. Abortions were illegal, but they were selectively available, everyone knew. If you were wealthy and could afford to travel far away, you could purchase a reasonably safe abortion. You could say you were going to visit some relatives for awhile, or travel, or work overseas for a few months. But if you were poor, and the dirt pile didn't work, your choice was to put yourself in the hands of an illegal abortioner and risk the consequences. Half of all maternal deaths resulted from illegal abortions in the first half of the 20th century. Approximately 1 million women used illegal abortions each year in the 1950's and 60's, even though the procedures were unsafe and life-threatening. 

About 60% of today's women live in developed countries where safe abortions are available. According to the World Health Organization, the death toll from unsafe abortions in the rest of the world is about 70,000 annually. That is 23 times the number killed in the 9/11 attacks, and that is every year.

It is easy for the older men who make laws to sit around and decide what choices the store keeper's daughter should have or not have. They are not in the clutches of her dilemma and they do not have to live with her choices. They can say what her obligations are and then walk away from them like the high school boy has done. They can even sound moral and sanctimonious about it.

My heart went out to that poor country girl, and still does.

When I was a young boy in elementary school, there sometimes were fights on the playground at recess. Usually it was two boys. Occasionally two girls would get into a fight and this drew great interest from the boys, but it was a rare event. Anytime there was a fight the other kids quit what they were doing and came running to form a circle of interest around the scrappers. There was cheering and commenting by the ring of spectators. It never lasted long because once it got to this point a teacher or principle would come running and break it up.

There was no peer pressure that discouraged these fights, as they provided a welcome diversion and usually resulted in no harm whatsoever. But there was an unwritten rule about fairness. A big boy was not supposed to pick on a little boy. Such a boy was said to be a "big bully" and in need of being "taught a lesson." The big boy should pick on someone his own size. The big kid might win the fight, but he always lost out in the playground court of public opinion.

Admittedly our playground was no perfect place. There were kids there who got satisfaction from pushing other kids around and would fight if given an opportunity. There were kids who would avoid a fight at all costs, even the cost of being taunted and made fun of. What fights there were occurred only occasionally. Most kids were welcome spectators if a fight did develop, but otherwise they wanted nothing to do with fighting.

But despite its imperfections, our playground did have its principle of fairness, and this usually served to protect the weak and helpless from the dominance of the strong.

Now we are long departed from these playgrounds. We now find ourselves in a "grown up" world. But our world, even the "civilized world," largely fails to provide protection for the weak and helpless. Large and powerful nations pick on small and helpless ones, with no shame at all. Dictators pick on dissidents among their own citizens, even with deadly force. States attempt to balance their budgets by picking on the meager salaries and benefits of school teachers, while protecting the powerful interests who stand to benefit. At the national level, the first targets for reducing costs are the social programs that benefit the poor, the sick, the children, the students, the wounded veterans, the homeless, the mentally ill, the bankrupt, the home foreclosed, the birth defected, the forgotten elderly, the incarcerated, the drug adicted, the disabled.

If you read the Bible, it is quite clear that Jesus would side with the weak and helpless in such discussions. But, strangely, his professed followers largely do the opposite. The Christian church aligns itself with the wealthy and powerful. It upholds a success mentality which assumes that the more God likes you the more he rewards you in dollars and cents. Then you can add to your riches by exploiting those he obviously does not like as much as you. God justifies the means to worldly success for his chosen ones. What a deal that is!

[Yes, I know the preceding paragraph is unfair to humble Christians who reject this mentality, work for low wages, and do much to help the poor. It is sad that the public face of Christianity is not their face. On the school playground, they would be the bullied, not the bullies.]

The economic mess we find ourselves in was not caused by school teacher salaries being high. It was caused by the greed and abuses of the powerful in collaboration with a political system that gave them free reign and shared their profits. These bullies have paid no price for their abuse, and now propose to cover their losses by continued abuse of the victims.

I had my teeth cleaned and checked the other day. They checked out great. You appreciate this news while sitting there in the bright lights with all the machines and shiny steel things ready to go to work.  My dentist gave me the good news in his own philosophical way: "If the country was in as good a shape as your mouth, we'd be a hell of a lot better off." I didn't argue.

Steve Jobs showed up the other day from his medical leave to announce the newest Apple iPad. He was dressed, as always, in blue jeans and a black long sleeved tee shirt. Why not an expensive tailored suit and colorful power tie? Because if you are Steve Jobs and the head of Apple Computer you don't need the corporate uniform to impress. Others do, but you don't. Your strength has no need to flaunt itself. Understatement is the more powerful statement.

The United States spends more money on its military that all the other nations of the world combined. We have killing power beyond comprehension. And yet our mentality is one of fear and insecurity. If money is short we will go without teachers for our children but not soldiers for our armies. We spend vast sums inventing and building weapons to fight enemies that do not even exist, just because someone fears they might exist someday and we need to be ready for them. The "home of the brave" has become the home of the fearful. We possess the might of powerful bears, but not the mentality. We are too fearful to turn our backs, even to the weakest of threats.

Jesus apparently had thoughts along these lines. As reported in the Gospel of Matthew, he said: Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloke also. And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain. (Matthew 5: 38-41 KJV)

This appears to be saying that striking back is a sign of weakness, not of strength. The strong can turn the other cheek and calmly walk away.

I have known some very smart and accomplished men and women. People who are indisputably head and shoulders above the rest of us. But I have noticed that these people fall into two categories.

Some of them, despite their accomplishments and abilities, are still fighting to prove themselves. In a group, they must do all the talking as if in competition. Their subordinates know to keep their mouths shut, even when they might add something of value, because this could be undermining. They could pay dearly for such an affront. You look at these people and wonder how, with so much proved already, they feel bound every day to prove more. How, with so much to be secure about, they are obviously so insecure and needy.

But others in this extraordinary category are just the opposite. In a group, or in any conversation, they can actually listen to others. They assume that they can learn from others, and want to do so.

One of them, I  knew once, assumed he could learn something from any person he ever met. This included working people, social misfits, extremists, bigots, and even children. He was curious about any life and anyone's opinion on any subject. He soaked up knowledge and insight from any source. He did not need to talk all the time, but when he did speak, people listened with great respect.

Where I grew up in the South we had an expression about "enough to make a grown man cry." It was usually heard in a humorous or self-deprecating way. Someone got his tax bill and said it was "enough to make a grown man cry." Not that he actually did cry, you understood. It might be used when a son-in-law quit his job, when a wife spent too much in the beauty parlor, or when the football team lost on a last-minute fumble. 

It did not seem to an observer that the accident on Sligo Creek was enough to make a grown man cry. Some kids out riding around might have laughed at the man. Most people likely failed to notice, or noticed and thought little about it.

I thought much about it, but did nothing except wait until I could pull around and drive on. I did not stop and introduce myself and offer assistance. In other words, I did the same thing everyone else did but with different feelings. Today as I replayed this scene in my head I wished that I had stopped and tried to help.

It appears to be the case that the suffering of others is concerning to some people and not to others. How do people get to be one way or the other?

Is it our upbringing? But if it were, how do you account for the fact that children raised in the same home by the same parents and educated in the same schools have totally different feelings?

Is it our religion? I think not. Religious people can be as selfish and uncaring as anyone else. In fact, in the story Jesus told about the man robbed and beaten on the road to Jericho, the religious people passed on by him, and it was the pagan (a.k.a. the "good Samaritan") who stopped to help.

Is it our heredity? I know there are researchers who propose that something in our genes causes us to be generous or selfish, liberal or conservative. But my mother was more caring and my father less so in these circumstances, and I am descended from them both.

It seems like more of a choice to me. But where does the will to make such choices come from? Self preservation is certainly a powerful instinct, and to spend our resources helping others, or even caring about them, is to divert something that otherwise could have served our own needs. It seems to run counter to "natural" tendencies. If there are plausible arguments for the existence of God, this could be one.

Those.  I was close enough that over her shoulder I could see some of the story headlines and, of course, the pictures.

The appeal of this literature is curious, and since this blog is about "life and other curiosities" I engaged in some reflection.  The subjects are well established and repetitive. Who's addicted to what? Who's cheating on whom? Whose new clothes do we love or hate? Whose weight is out of control? Who's having plastic surgery and for what? Who is divorcing or marrying whom?

I wondered about the writers and editors of these publications.  Are they true believers in the truth and importance of their labors, or do they do this as a game, as a comic diversion?

Recently I watched "The Wrestler" with its Oscar-nominated performance by Mickey Rourke.  The film portrays the men who engage in the violence and "drama" of professional wrestling as actually a band of brothers in reality and completely conscious of the fact that they are acting out their parts for the entertainment of others.  The question remains as to whether the audience is similarly aware.

I found myself studying the magazine woman for clues.  She was middle aged and did not look at all like the women whose pictures she was observing.  She looked as if she might be the teacher of a children's Sunday School class or the business manager for a decent restaurant.  But I made secret judgements (being Myers-Briggs INFJ) as to her taste and character and level of intelligence.  Then I tried to tell myself that actually she could be a Ph.D. is cultural anthropology and doing research for an article.  I accused myself of jumping to conclusions and possibly being a snob.

I remembered that the evening before my flight I had met with a book club where literature of importance and social value was discussed by certified intellectuals.  They had not discussed the latest reports about Brad and Angelina and whether Jenn is still in the picture or not.  And I am listening to music by Copland or Mahler, feeling somewhat good about myself.

But what does all this matter, really?

We spend our days as a tale that is told, and the fact that the tales are different does not make one better than the other.  It is better not to judge, or be judged.

I was hiking on a lakeshore trail in a nearby state park. Ahead was a small wooden bridge across a stream. Several good steps and you would be across this bridge. But crossing it on this early morning, I noticed something that brought me to a stop. Someone had written something there. I imagined it to be the hand of a young boy. But instead of "fuck you" or "parents suck" it was something strangely different.

"I love you!"

As I walked on, I began pondering this message. It was not addressed to anyone. Usually you would expect a name attached. "I love you, Mary!" Or Jane, or Sally . . . someone with a name.

Was the boy shy? Did he want to leave the message anonymous, so he could point it out to any girl he brought and claim it was to her? Or could his love have been for another boy, and no girl at all? Or was this message more of a wish than a reality? He felt love, but his love had no name to attach to?  Or could he have just been happy on a bright, sunny day and in love with life and with everyone?  I kept wondering because there were all these possibilities, and no way to tell for sure about any of them.

However, I vote for the bright, sunny day.  A day with an exclamation mark beside it.  A day when love was an overwhelming feeling that had to be written down, even on a bridge.  A day when it was free and unbounded, including all the world and the entire human race.

I know this sounds like nonsense.  I know such writing was not placed by the head of the local chamber of commerce, kneeling down on those boards in his business suit and tie.  It is nonsense for sure to him.  This is the work of a child, we assume.  It must have been a child, we assume.  Thus we make it childish and foreign to our practical lives.

Sometimes on televised football games the camera shows a person in the end zone holding a sign saying "John 3:16"–the location of a verse in the Bible.  The person wants us to get a Bible and read that verse.  He believes it will do us some good.  Perhaps it will for, if I recall correctly, this passage begins "God so loved the world . . .."  So in this theology it is god-like to love the world, but that is in theory.  It seems that the majority of god-fans don't see it that way.  Their god loves their particular portion of the world–their country or tribe or religion or ethnic group, or whatever.

Speaking before a fundraiser for his political party, Newt Gingrich recently declared: "I am not a citizen of the world. I think the entire concept is intellectual nonsense and stunningly dangerous!"  In this view it is every country for itself, and may the best country win.  Or it is every race or language group for itself.  Or it is every social or religious group for itself.  And so we always at war, one against another.  So it goes, and so it goes.

Human love, if we have any, tends to narrow down, not broaden out.  We love only certain classes, races, political persuasions.  We love children and relatives only if they behave themselves and treat us as they should.  We certainly would never love an enemy.  Our loved ones are the loving ones, meaning those who love us.  Thus does love amount to no better than a practical selfishness.

I know the author of the inscription didn't have all of this in mind, but it's what I think about every time I cross his bridge.

You get used to all the swim team noise.  You get to where you seldom even notice it.  But then, nearby, I heard unusually loud hollering.  Angry hollering.

One of the swim team “coaches” was giving the devil to a young boy.  Face red, arms waving, fingers pointing.  The poor kid just standing there with his eyes staring down at the pool deck.  I put the word coach in parenthesis because I’ve never seen a one of these guys doing what I would call coaching.  Their job seems limited to getting the kids organized in the water, timing their laps, and urging them on.

“Go, go, go!”  “Don’t let him pass you, Cramer!”  “Alright now, I want to see some better times.”

They do not teach about swimming.  Their deal is to motivate the kids to try harder at doing it the way they came there doing it.

I felt sorry for the boy who was being berated by his “coach.”  Although warm and comfortable in the adjoining hot tub, I felt his pain, his embarrassment.  It made me wonder about the men who do this.  Were they super athletes when they were this age?  Or are they taking it out on these kids as a make-up call for their own lack of achievement?  Do they have jobs where someone bosses them around, where they have to take a lot of crap, and this is a way of getting to unload on someone else, even a poor kid?

When I was the age of the swim team kids, I had a wonderful Boy Scout leader.  His name was John Murphy and we called him by his last name, Murphy, like we called each other by last names.  Murphy was devoted to us boys and we knew it.  He deserved to be called a leader, both in leading by example and also through his advice and encouragement.  There were certainly times we disappointed him, but never did he berate anyone.  Achievements were about us, not about him.  Murphy was someone I still feel indebted to.  My better self would like to be such a person and be remembered so long and so fondly.

To be sure, there are times for urging people to try harder.  There may be times for taking people to task.  But showing them the way, teaching them how things are, those speak louder and last longer.