Speech given at Gulf Breeze Toastmasters Feb 2016.
The wisdom our Fathers pass to us is the epicenter to our very being, our moral center if you will. You might say it is the rock at which we bear the storm of life. My father has provided me with wonderful snippets of wisdom to guide me through the obstacle course we call life.
“Never eat the yellow snow.”
“Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Give a man your fishing rod, well then you’re going to be hungry come supper time.”
“Son if you really want money in this life you have to work for it. Now be quiet, they’re about to announce the lottery numbers.”
“If you find yourself in a situation where you are with a group in the woods and you come upon an angry bear, you don’t have to be able to outrun the bear, you just need to outrun the guy next to you.”
“Always make sure your shoes are tied while you’re in the woods.”
These were certainly great words to live by, but the greatest wisdom is those elements of wisdom that have been passed down for many generations or from wise sages and or peoples that are the authority of the lands or seas.
A good example of this comes to mind when I was my kid's age, about 8 or 9 years old. My mom and dad would take us canoeing on the Little Sandy River. We’d drop in at a landing and plan our long winding journey down this small but gorgeous river for several miles.
Of course, my sister and I would often not be able to soak in the beauty of these natural wonders that surrounded us and would get bored and for no apparent reason would begin to bicker at each other about nothing in particular. She’d get irritated that I’d be tapping my foot, which at that age was in constant perpetual motion, I have no idea why. She whines this loud cry, “S.S.S.Stop it!” This gave me great joy, I have no idea why.
Dad, calm as ever, would just give a nod acknowledging something up ahead with an attention-getting, “psssst” We’d look in the direction of his nod, seeing nothing in particular.
Dad continued, “You know the Indians used to float along in this same river in canoes hundreds of years ago before there were jets flying above or the sound of cars in the distance.”
We listened to the silence, but with the sound of a jet, miles above us, barely audible, listening for every sound.
He said, “They used to hunt in the canoes as well because they could sneak up on anything. If you are quiet enough, no one can hear you coming in a canoe. The Indians were wise people. See that squirrel way up ahead on that branch hanging over the river. Let’s see if we can sneak up on it.” My sister and I looked. I didn’t see a squirrel, but Dad had good eyes for such things. And silently we sailed across the glassy water, just as quiet as any Indian ever did in the history of time.
Last winter I finally brought that same canoe to Georgia where I was living at the time. I couldn’t wait until Spring to come and I could take my two boys, Jack 9 years old and Elliott 8 years old, in the canoe and share in this great experience that I had as a child and share that with my children.
We paddled away from the shore and went through the motions of how to paddle, how to steer, how not to stand up, for God’s sake don’t stand up. Finally, we were moving across Martin’s Lake, my son Jack’s foot begins to pat against the side of the boat to which my son Elliott yells at him, “Stop it!” My head reels as this beautiful day in this beautiful place is about to be a living hell. My anxiety level is just rising and rising and I feel like I’m about to explode as they exchange continuous insults and drown out every noise in a 2 mile radius with their whining.
Then suddenly I had a moment of clarity and well a bit of an internal chuckle at the expense of my younger self. I calmly look ahead and nod and let loose as direct, “Pssssst” “You know boys, Indians used to ride in canoes in this very lake hundreds of years ago and the great part about canoes is if you’re quiet enough you can sneak up on anything, do you guys see that squirrel way over there?…”
We had a nice quiet day on the lake. As soon as I got home I had to call my Dad and thank him for his brilliant wisdom.
