Uh-Oh Read online

  “BRIEF, WITTY,

  DOWN-TO-EARTH …

  The simple clarity of Fulghum’s vision and the universality of his themes have obviously touched a responsive chord.”

  —The Seattle Times

  “Fulghum celebrates the ordinary and encourages his readers to seek holiness in the seemingly mundane. … Fulghum communicates the ‘wonder-and-awe’ of time, love, and human potential with authenticity and feeling. … His observations are so common, yet his emotions so genuine, that we spot him as The Real Thing.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Weddings always bring out the best in Fulghum’s storytelling. As do funerals. His recounting of the cemetery clash between bereaved Old Lady Hogaboom and the Veterans of Foreign Wars is worthy of Jean Shepherd. … It’s nice that there are people like Robert Fulghum in our world. Maybe they can even make it a better place.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “Perceptive … Fulghum endeavors to transform the commonplace into the transcendent.”

  —The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “A raid on Fulghum’s fridge is worth the trip. There is much on those shelves to nourish both mind and body.”

  —Houston Chronicle

  “THIS NEW COLLECTION IS

  A JOY.”

  —Chattanooga News-Free Press

  “An enlightening, uplifting experience. UH-OH is a book to be treasured and shared. … This is a book to be read aloud to someone you have known for a long time and with whom you share a lifetime of memories. It will generate quiet chuckles, belly laughs, and perhaps a few tears, as Fulghum subtly weaves a theme of balance between the mundane and the holy, between humor and grief, between what is and what might be.”

  —Tulsa World

  “Fulghum specializes in the celebration of the everyday event, the little domestic epiphany, the miracle of meadoaf, the cosmic significance of jelly beans, the fickle finger of fate. … Sort of a cross between Norman Rockwell and Kahlil Gibran, but funnier.”

  —Toronto Globe & Mail

  “A welcome gem of wisdom to be remembered with delight … [Fulghum is] a casual writer with a marvelous gift for finding the universal in the simple and trivial.”

  —The Anniston Star

  “Fulghum has a kind of no-nonsense, here’s-looking-at-you approach that is appealing. He is a man of the neighborhood, aware of life’s pitfalls and foibles, and the parables he creates are honest and believable.”

  —The Portland Oregonian

  “DOWNRIGHT IRRESISTIBLE…

  Not liking Robert Fulghum’s third bestseller, UH-OH, would be similar to not liking Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  —Lexington Herald-header

  “Simple, from-the-heart… His stories are funnier than ever. Fulghum’s message, if boiled down, seems to come to this: Stop and smell the roses while you can; live life; be yourself; and never lose your sense of wonder, awe, and humor. … Millions of Americans who’ve read All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten and It Was on Fire When I Lay Down on It seem to find a warm refuge in layman philosopher Fulghum’s comforting words. Who’s to say a third dose won’t do the same?”

  —The State (Columbia, SC)

  “UH-OH is fast, easy reading and a book that can be put down and picked up again for quick-reading periods. It makes a good addition to the bedside table.”

  —Baton Rouge Magazine

  “Philosophic joy. From meat loaf to the Salvation Army band, from fireflies to funerals, from hiccups to a watch without hands. The man writes with balance and humor.”

  —The Staten Island Sunday Advance

  “Fulghum’s experiences and those of others amuse, teach, and even provoke tears in readers who are tuned in to his inspired observations.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  By Robert Fulghum

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED IN

  KINDERGARTEN

  IT WAS ON FIRE WHEN I LAY DOWN ON IT

  UH-OH

  MAYBE (MAYBE NOT)

  FROM BEGINNING TO END: The Rituals of Our Lives

  Books published by The Random House Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.

  “UH-OH” IS NOT IN ANY DICTIONARY OR THESAURUS, and is seldom seen in written form. Yet most of us utter that sound every day. And have used it all our lives.

  “Uh-oh” is one of the first expressions a baby learns.

  “Uh-oh,” or something like it, has been used as long as people have existed. And it may be the first thing Adam said to Eve after he bit into the apple.

  She knew exactly what he meant, too.

  Across the history of the human family, millions and millions of distinct sounds have come and gone as we continually reach for ways to communicate with one another. Often, the most expressive words we use are not words at all, just those shorthand sounds that represent complex thoughts—grunts and moans and snorts and clicks and whistles compounded by facial expressions and physical gestures: Uh-huh … no-no … mmmnnn … huh … hey … oops … OK … yo … ah … ha … humpf … and an almost endless number of others whose meaning and spelling cannot be conveyed with letters on paper.

  “Uh-oh” is way up near the top of a list of small syllables with large meanings.

  We say “uh-oh” to a small child who falls down or bumps his head or pinches his finger. It means that we know the child hurts, but we also know the hurt is temporary and that the child has the resources to handle the hurt and get up and go on about his business. As the child learns, he will not need to turn to a parent to kiss-it-and-make-it-well each time he scrapes himself—he will know where to find the bandages on his own. “Uh-oh” is the first wedge in weaning a child away from us into independence.

  The older we get, the more experience and knowledge we have, the more able we are to distinguish momentary difficulty from serious trouble. The more we know that something is “uh-oh,” not 911.

  If I had a chest pain, I might go to an emergency room thinking “Oh my God, heart attack!” If my doctor had the same symptoms, she might think, “Uh-oh, gas pains,” take an antacid, and go on with her work.

  What to me is the last gasp of my old truck is a repairable electric problem to my mechanic. “Uh-oh, there’s a short in your ignition wire.”

  One might even come to feel the same way about things that cannot be fixed. From the cradle we know about “Rock-a-bye-baby” and what happens when the bough breaks. In kindergarten we are reminded about these conditions. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men could not put Humpty Dumpty together again. I’m familiar with death, having been around it often in hospitals and cemeteries. If I see my own death coming, my response may well be “uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh” in this sense is a frame of mind. A philosophy.

  It says to expect the unexpected, and also expect to be able to deal with it as it happens most of the time. “Uh-oh” people seem not only to expect surprise, but they count on it, as if surprise were a dimension of vitality.

  “Uh-oh” embraces “Here we go again” and “Now what?” and “You never can tell what’s going to happen next” and “So much for plan A” and “Hang on, we’re coming to a tunnel” and “No sweat” and “Tomorrow’s another day” and “You can’t unscramble an egg” and “A hundred years from now it won’t make any difference.”

  “Uh-oh” is more than a momentary reaction to small problems. “Uh-oh” is an attitude—a perspective on the universe. It is part of an equation that summarizes my view of the conditions of existence:

  “uh-huh” + “oh-wow” + “uh-oh”

  + “oh, God” = “ah-hah!”

  “HUM A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR ME.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can tell you what key your head is in.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Your head is a sound chamber, and every sound chamber resonates to certain notes better than others because of the shape and size and construction of the chamber.”

  I am a visitor in a high school science class, and the teacher is using me to demonstrate to his class that adults don’t know everything. All his students already know what their key is and how and why. I don’t. So he sends me off to do some personal research in a small, empty room. To hum and haw until I sound a note I really like—one that makes my head vibrate a little—in a comfortable and pleasing way. Easy. It’s like standing in the shower singing, with my clothes on and the water off.

  When the note felt right, I reported back to the classroom, where the science wizard put me in front of a microphone and said, “Hum for me.” I hummed. The oscilloscope reflected the wave structure of my voice.

  “B-flat,” he announced. “Fulghum, you have a head that’s tuned in the key of B-flat major—which is a sixty-cycle tone with natural overtones of D and F, forming the triadic complex of the chord.”

  Later I learned that trumpets and clarinets are also B-flat instruments, which means a lot of good jazz is in B-flat. Fanfares and marching-band music are often written in B-flat, which makes it the key of parades and spectacles. At the racetrack, the trumpet call announcing each race is in B-flat. “The Star-Spangled Banner” and the “Marseillaise” are in the same key. And the “William Tell Overture” should be.

  And my refrigerator hums in B-flat major.

  The electric motor of the refrigerator gives off a sixty-cycle B-flat
hum, as do all motors that run on 120-volt AC current. The washing machine, dryer, electric heater, blender, hair dryer, coffeepot, and all the rest are B-flat appliances. What’s more, even when no motors are running, there is a sixty-cycle leak of energy from all the wall sockets in the house. My house is immersed in B-flat, which may explain why a man with a B-flat head like me really feels at home there. And also may explain why I feel so good near the refrigerator. I am in harmony with it. Now I know why I sometimes sing the national anthem when I invade the refrigerator in the middle of the night.

  Refrigerators. On a very local scale, a refrigerator is the center of the universe. On the inside is food essential to life, and on the outside of the door is a summary of the life events of the household. Grocery lists, report cards, gems of wisdom, cartoons, family schedules, urgent bills, reminders, instructions, complaints, photographs, postcards, lost and found items, and commands. When the word GARBAGE appears there, somebody had better move it and soon.

  The door of the refrigerator is a chronicle of current events not found on TV or in the daily newspaper.

  An important art gallery is often found here as well. Postcards of paintings from museums. Scribbles from a child’s long, rainy afternoon with a box of crayons. A collection of drawings, collages, and paintings that come home from school in a steady stream. All stuck to the front of the family fridge.

  When you no longer have any art on the refrigerator door, something is over—your children have grown up. And when it appears again years later, it means your children have children. Grandparents are suckers for refrigerator art and will put up just about anything offered them by a child of their child.

  I’d like to sponsor a national contest to see who has the most amazing collection of stuff on their fridge—and produce a book of photographs of refrigerator decor. Each photograph would be accompanied by a page of explanation, including a list of ail items contained inside and on top of the refrigerator as well. This could be the coffee-table book of the year.

  “But my refrigerator has nothing on it—what does that say about me?” you may ask.

  It means you are a nice person who has carried neatness in the kitchen one step further than the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval requires. Lighten up. Get some magnets—the heavy-duty kind—and get your stuff up on the door of the fridge. If you aren’t sure about what to put there, consult with friends. Many people know about what should go on the fridge door and will be glad to advise you.

  Ever been present at one of those archeological expeditions when the entire contents of the refrigerator, freezer included, are laid out on the kitchen counters?

  How can people live like this?

  From the freezer compartment come especially interesting bits of history. Like a package of mystery meat with freezer burn so bad you don’t know whether to bandage it, smoke it, or use it to start a fire. I recall discovering such things as a snowball, the corpse of a very small shrew, some ice cream made from snow, a corsage from a wedding anniversary, and several flashlight batteries—all frozen into the last ice age of the freezing compartment of our refrigerator. All placed in safekeeping in the deep cold by various members of the family for their own reasons. All important to the persons who put them there. What should be done with these relics? I ran across an idea from the National Park Service that has merit. It asks that any historical artifacts found in a park be appreciated by the finder, left in place, and simply reported to headquarters so that experts may deal with removal or disposal. From hard experience, I urge that those who clean out freezers at home follow the Park Service policy. Those who reclaim their treasures will love you more if they don’t have to exhume half-thawed relics from the garbage can.

  Unless you are happily sound asleep at that hour, 2:00 A.M. is usually not the best of times. It’s an hour often given to pacing the floor in crisis or in grief—or to consoling wee babes who cry in the night. Telephones that ring at 2:00 A.M. usually mean trouble, as do sounds made by teenagers arriving home late, disturbed dogs, dripping water, and those unknown creatures that gnaw somewhere in the walls. People talk to themselves about serious things at this hour.

  I think of 2:00 A.M. as feeding time. The time when I’ve had some of the best meals I’ve ever eaten. Gourmet eating. Alone. With nobody standing around saying, “You’re not really going to eat THAT, are you?”

  One memorable midnight I put away a taco shell full of almond paste and washed it down with a can of Snap-e-Tom that had been there so long there was rust on the can. Followed that with some celery sticks limp enough to tie granny knots in. Then I ate a whole dish of tapioca pudding that I picked up out of the bowl in one piece. The last inch from a bottle of red wine made way for a scoop of cold chili smeared on rye bread and topped with fig jam. A spoonful of peanut butter and a spoonful of jam every now and then to clear the palate. A couple of glasses of milk to keep things moving on down my throat without jamming up. Finally, I revived a cup of dead coffee in the microwave and went out on the porch to sit and look at the moon and smoke the remaining half of a cigar I hadn’t finished before I went up to bed a couple of nights before. Great meal. One of the truly great ones.

  Another dead-of-the-night dining extravaganza happened because I sat up late reading The White Trash Cookbook. There’s a recipe in there for “Rack of Spam.” You take a can of Spam, which we just happened to have—left over from a camping trip—and you butterfly the loaf, which means slicing it in thin sections without cutting all the way through. Then you bend the Spam open so you can stick pieces of pineapple in between them. (That’s what that half a can of hairy pineapple chunks on the back shelf of the refrigerator is meant for.) For garnish, top off with some peanut butter and a few maraschino cherries. Stick that baby in the microwave for about four minutes. Open a box of saltine crackers and get a whole quart of milk from the fridge—drink it right from the carton. Take your time and eat it all.

  You can’t get a meal like this in a French restaurant, but I’ve seldom eaten better.

  The recipes in the cookbooks and the meals we really eat are not the same thing.

  Just as a map and the highway it describes are not the same thing.

  The map does not tell of sun, roadwork, grumpy companions, or the games played with children in a car. And the cookbook does not speak of the pleasures of winging it alone in the kitchen in the dead of night, eating without rules.

  Maps and cookbooks help—they are one way of describing reality.

  Manuals have their uses … but they are not to be confused with the living.

  What I really look forward to finding in the fridge in a time of late-night need is meatloaf. Now we’re getting serious. Meatloaf.

  When I say those words, people usually smile. And then I ask, “Why are you smiling?” And then they laugh. “Why are you laughing?” And they laugh again. “Meatloaf—haw, haw, haw—meatloaf—haw, haw, haw.” One of the many mysterious powers of meatloaf.

  Mom’s Cafe at the four-way stop in Salina, Utah, is high on my list of great places to eat. Mom’s advertises THE BEST IN HOMEMADE PIES, SCONES, SOUP, AND MUCH, MUCH MORE!! Mom’s specializes in liver and onions, chicken-fried steak, deep-fried chicken, “real” french fries, and “real” mashed potatoes. But Mom’s doesn’t serve meatloaf. I called them long-distance to check my facts. The lady who answered the phone was a little surprised that I asked. “Don’t you know nothing? Meatloaf is something you eat at home.”

  It’s true. Meatloaf is mostly homemade. Mostly made by real moms, by hand. Constructed out of what’s around. Some hamburger that might be going bad if it isn’t used soon—sprouting potatoes, rubbery carrots, onions, salt, pepper, steak sauce, bacon drippings, etcetera. I say “etcetera” because the list of what’s possible is too long to print. Then there’s the filler—meatloaf expander. Bread crumbs, corn flakes, Rice Crispies, oatmeal, or whatever—even dirt would work, I guess. And some egg to hold the whole thing together. Then it has to be mushed around by hand, kneaded into a loaf, and put into that family museum piece, the meatloaf pan. Into the oven to bake. Served hot with gravy, mashed potatoes, and Wonder bread. Yes. Yes!