Sputterpub's Blog

When you’re caught in a catastrophe but not pressed by injury or urgency (me, Loma Prieta), the biggest problem is the lack of information.

Rumors fly. Cell networks fail. Even the emergency responders have trouble communicating. It’s dreadful.

But understandable. After all, it’s a catastrophe. What bothers me is the inability to get full information in non-catastrophic circumstances.

You know what I mean. We never get the real story about the BART delay or the flight cancellation. We all know that even if warning systems work, the powers-that-be might not tell us to evacuate, lest panic ensue.

It seems to me that the decision to withhold information from the public is based on reasoning like this: “Judging from the mob response when the news reports convey partial information, just imagine the chaos that would reign if we gave them the full story.”

Are they sure? I don’t think such an assumption has been tested. I’m starting to wonder if some of the panic/mob response is provoked by the mob members’ angry suspicion about information screening.

I think there’s abundant evidence that people, when allowed a full range of perception and a little maneuvering room, often perform admirably. I propose we give us a try.

When you become a grownup at five, your big questions are different than the issues interesting to chronological adults.

You wonder why the 30 other kids in your kindergarten class listen to the one teacher. (And as you age and share that wonder with your peers, you’re puzzled to discover that they never even had the question).

You want to know who created God. (You ask that one so persistently it gets you invited to leave Sunday School in another three years).

You are still puzzled about why people treat your brother differently than they do you. You know he pees through other anatomy than yours, but that’s the only substantive variation between you. You seem to have equivalent interests and abilities.

But the question that is most mysterious to you is about the shape of future life as it’s being presented by your culture. It makes no sense to you.

You understand that everyone has to work. You’re even able to appreciate the idea that without work, play wouldn’t be so happy. An infinite supply of candy would not be sweet the right way. But you cannot make sense of the proposed schedule.

You see that you’ll be expected to work at least five days out of every seven. At least 48 weeks out of every 52. Most of your daylight hours. After going through all the growing-up grief, you’re supposed to work hard from about age 20 to 65, and then retire once you’re too old to enjoy anything.

Well I wasn’t having any of it. And the people engaged in it were accusing me of lacking common sense.

To make a 55 year story short, I’ve changed my mind about a number of subjects but not this one. Every decision, about job, house, where I live, when I relax: every choice is made with the goal of having some vacation each day, and with the plan of never retiring from it all.

When one of Katie’s friends visited our house some years ago, she marveled. “Wow,” she said to my daughter. “Your mom’s so lucky, to live in a neighborhood where a car isn’t necessary.”

That cracked us up. If only she knew how many test-walks were taken, before I bought the place.

I met with a tough-talking attorney some years ago. He interviewed me to determine whether he wanted my little firm to handle his retirement plan. We sat in his conference room and discussed where I’d been and my approach and his objectives.

Our conversation ranged from the general about qualification rules to the specific about hypothetical transactions. It didn’t take long for him to ask me a question I couldn’t answer.

“I don’t know,” I began to reply, “but I can find out and get back to you.”

“No need,” he said. He leaned back in the leather chair and grinned. “You’ve got the job.”

I smiled.

“You said those three magic words I want to hear from any consultant:

I Don’t Know.”