Free Maybe (Maybe Not) by Robert Fulghum Page B

back. The anxiety of getting on was matched by the anxiety of riding. We were a long way off the ground, and it felt as if we would be catapulted in that direction at any moment by the great lurching march of the beast.
    When the ladder was raised again for us to get off, I noticed a small sign attached to the top step.
    NOTICE: INSTRUCTIONS FOR DISMOUNTING FROM
ELEPHANT.
FIRST, COMPOSE YOUR MIND.
MUCH EASIER TO GET DOWN THAN UP.
    In the ensuing years, much of that trip around the world has faded from conscious memory. But indelibly written in the operating instructions for my life is that admonition from the top rung of that ladder in Thailand. The instructions continued, concerningholding on with both hands and not poking the elephant. But it was that first line that spoke to me.
    Even now, when I am about to make a move of consequence, small or large, a warning light flashes from the control panel in my head: “This is an elephant dismount.” And sometimes, sometimes, I actually manage to compose my mind.

S occer Mania comes to our Seattle neighborhood every September.
    When children appear at the door selling luxury candy bars to make money to buy their own uniforms, we know the soccer season is under way. These ill—at-ease visitors on the front porch are the rookies, both at the game of soccer and the game of door-to-door sales.
    Here’s the tableau:
    A timid knock at the door. A small child. Head down, muttering, hand holding out the bar of chocolate as if apologetically returning something stolen.
    The child does not want to be there.
    The parent, standing off in the bushes, does not want to be there.
    And you do not need the chocolate.
    But since you were once the child and several times the parent in this semi-scam, you are obliged to take your place in this initiation of the young into entrepreneurial capitalism, sports, and the American Way.
    (Besides, while it is true that you don’t really
need
the chocolate, you
want
the chocolate, and it feels so right to simultaneously help the young and get candy.)
    The nine-year-old daughter of a friend recently went through this coming-of-age ritual in a way that was both disastrous and triumphant.
    Since this was the first season for her team, each child was obliged to help raise money for uniforms by taking at least one case of chocolate bars to sell. A model of soccer-team spirit—everybody plays a part in achieving a goal.
    With no enthusiasm whatever, the girl accepted her case of chocolate in the same spirit she would accept pimples in a few years—something to be avoided if possible, but endured if necessary. She wanted to play ball. She didn’t know retail sales was a prerequisite, but so be it.
    Her mother and father did not buy the whole case outright from her as she had hoped. So much for Plan A.
    Her brother and his friends were no help, though they tried to help her diminish her inventory by stealing a couple of bars. And every member of her Sunday School class also had chocolate to sell.
    She hid the chocolate under her bed for a week, hoping a fairy would take it and leave the money. No luck.
    When the soccer-league candy chairmother called the father to find out what was going on and why the child had neither come to soccer practice nor produced the chocolate receipts, the father’s pride was hooked. He promised results.
    He gave his daughter an emergency-level intensive course in salesmanship and personal responsibility. He and the daughter rehearsed. She came to the door and practiced knocking and he shouted, “KNOCK LOUDER, I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” until she could hit the door like the first wave of a police raid.
    He made her look up, speak plainly, and offer a two-for-one deal if necessary. When he finally got her to shout, “
BUY THIS CANDY OR I WILL SET YOUR HOUSE ON FIRE!”
he figured assertiveness training had gone far enough. He marched her off with fire in her belly. She was pumped!
    At the first house, her father gave her a