The Difference
I’m going to tell you the difference between happy and unhappy people.”
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That's how the doctor of psychiatry greeted me in the unpretentious waiting room of his storefront office. He then advanced his credentials - not a faded framed diploma, multiple letters after his name, or published articles in scientific journals, but rather the powerful proof of personal experience.
“I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been doing this for fifty years.”
He looked it, too - eager eyes bulged below arched brows; pursed lips mused on a taut chin; wiry white hair geysered from his wizened temple- a lot like Doc, Marty McFly’s peculiar pal in Back to the Future.
It wasn’t precisely clear why I was the object of his enthusiastic homily. I was only transportation for his patient who anxiously hoped to be diagnosed with anxiety disorder in order to qualify for disability. When they returned to the waiting room, I was the lone occupant and unwitting audience.
“I’m going to tell you the difference between happy and unhappy people.”
Fifty years and thousands of exams and evaluations identifying syndromes and phobias from insomnia to hysteria, this Doc had seen and analyzed it all. Maybe he would know something about unhappy people.
“Do you smoke?”
His question puzzled me. The difference has to do with whether or not you smoke?
I would have liked to joke: “Only a cigar when my horse wins.” But I could tell Doc was not joking, so I answered, “No, I don’t.”
He seemed disappointed. If I smoked, it would help his illustrative purpose. Not bothering to think of an alternate analogy, he quickly quipped, “Well, pretend you do.”
“So, you smoke, and I don’t like smoking. I think it’s a nasty habit. It’ll give you lung cancer. It’s stupid to smoke! You should quit smoking.” Rat-a-tat-tat, he convincingly denounced my nicotine dependence.
I could relate to his hostility. I remember being stuck in a smoke saturated car at the end of our long driveway with a well meaning unfiltered two-pack-a-day neighbor. She didn’t want me or her children to catch our death of cold while waiting for the school bus.
Mom was fond of recounting how when I was four, I straddled a store aisle like Marshall Matt Dillon, stopped a smoker dead in his tracks, pointed my finger in his face like a six-shooter, and e-nun-ci-a-ted, “Sir… that… thing’ll… kill… you!”
At fourteen my very first paying job was priming tobacco, bending over and breaking the leaves off at the stalk, stuffing them under my free arm, and taking all I could as quick as I could to the trailer pulled down the tractor row. There was the lifesaving midmorning Pepsi and “pack of nabs” (peanut butter crackers), and an easy comradary at the barn where the “lady folks” attached the leaves to sticks for drying.
I turned that first proud paycheck into a Captain & Tennille Love Will Keep Us Together album.
Oddly a fond memory now, I absolutely hated priming tobacco then. Starting at 6 am, the leaves wet with dew and insecticides, in a determined effort to not fall behind I often lashed a leaf like a horse whip popping my eye which would sting and water all day. Tendons in my hand cramped from snapping a thousand stems, and my hauling arm felt like it would fall off. About an hour after lunch I would throw up. Every single day. The doctor gave Mom pills to give me for “tobacco sickness.”
I was sick from and sick of tobacco. I sure didn’t want to smoke the stuff!
But what did smoking have to do with happiness or the lack thereof?
Doc continued. “So, I’ve told you how I feel about smoking. I don’t like it! I’ve expressed my opinion.”
The way he emphasized expressed my opinion signaled me that he was about to change lanes and reveal the difference.
The quirky shrink now became Dr. Phil. He could tell by the flash in my eyes that he had my full attention and comprehension, and it suddenly seemed our little waiting room was a stage with an unseen studio audience.
“I’ve expressed my opinion. And that’s okay. I can ex…pressss (the word became two words and press became twice as long) - I can ex… pressss my opinion, and be happy. I told you how I feel. Now you know. And we’re done.”
But he wasn't done.
“The unhappy person,” he intoned as his pupils flared, his destination in sight. “The unhappy person is not content with expressing. The unhappy person thinks they have to en-force,” ending the word with the hiss of a snake.
“So, if I’m an unhappy person, I can’t just tell you I hate smoking. I have to do whatever it takes to make you quit. I will annoy and nag, belittle and berate, scold and shame, bickee and blame, hide your cigarettes - whatever is necessary to make sure you… don’t… smoke!”
“And that’s it! That’s the difference.”
There was no offering plate passed, or invitation given, but ol’ Doc had delivered his sermon and his soul. He seemed satisfied - content that he had enlightened the unknowing with a surefire certainty.
It was his verily, verily. It was a truth he knew was, well, true.
And now he knew that I knew it too.
2 Smoke, Mr. Appleby?
I haven’t seen Doc since, but I have used his happiness indicator again and again. I can’t help but use it. Now everyone is either an Expresser or an Enforcer.
And it really is the difference.
I’ve never met a happy Enforcer. Not one. Think about that. In fact, I’ve seen happiness instantly evaporate as I’ve observed someone go from expressing their opinion to enforcing.
It’s the difference between a lit match and a lit fuse.
Mr. Appleby, the college dean, summoned me to his office about setting off a smoke bomb in our dormitory. I was not the type to pull such a stunt, so Dean Appleby was surprised when I admitted it. But he believed me when I explained that I didn’t actually mean to do it even though I was the one who held a lit match to the end of the fuse.
It was shortly after Christmas when I and a couple of buddies returned the 480 miles from Stokesdale, North Carolina to Trinity Baptist College in Jacksonville, Florida. En route I bought a variety of bottle rockets and smoke bombs from a cheap, state-line souvenir shop. Illegal in North Carolina and Florida, there was an ample supply in-between.
I had no previous pyrotechnic experience other than holding a few sparklers on the Fourth of July, but from the front passenger’s seat, I lit the gumball size bombs and hurled them out along the highway. The air pouring in from the open window made it very difficult to light the fuses, often taking four or five attempts. I was too afraid to hold them very long, and by pitching them so quickly there was only a disappointing fleeting puff of smoke.
We stopped on the Georgia side of the state line bridge to launch the bottle rockets into the St. Marys River. That was pretty cool, the blaze display radiating the midnight sky above, reflecting in the river below.
In case a blue light display caught up to our festivity, a rehearsed rationale of being on the legal side of the line was on the ready. I was no James Dean, but it was an exhilarating experience for a nineteen year old who’s most acute transgression heretofore was coming home an hour past curfew.
There were six of us lodged in one dorm room of the Bible College. John O’Malley was our larger-than-life colorful character who could bend the rules without breaking them, except he did brazenly listen to taboo Pop like 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover and Alone Again (Naturally). His mischievous bedevilment made him a magnet for a menagerie of misfits.
On this occasion, a crowd filled the small space between his bunk and mine, where he hadn’t yet taken down Christmas lights strung along the skeleton of his bunk. Blue, red, and greens illuminated the merriment. It was Sunday, no less.
I had reinjured my ACL-torn-knee playing basketball, and sat immobile with a wrap cast on my swollen leg, crutches propped close by. One unused smoke bomb that had rolled under the seat of the car was now safely tucked in the catch-all top drawer of my dresser.
O’Malley knew it.
In the middle of our can of human sardines was Wayne, the popular son of the college president. Who better to do something subversive than he? O’Malley placed a pickle jar lid on the floor, commissioned me to retrieve the explosive, and then proceeded to prod the president’s son by waving an unlit match like a hypnotist’s watch.
It was a zany scene. There was the bomb in the lid with the fuse curling upward like a cobra. There was the crazed gang crammed in the crevice pressuring the peer in the middle.
And there was jolly John O’Malley silhouetted in a frame of Christmas lights with a delightfully sinister glint in his eyes, leading us in a chant of “Light it... light it… light it!”
So he did.
The match, that is. Wayne lit the match then lost his nerve. He handed it to me, and in the delirium of the moment I impulsively decided to dramatically pretend like I would indeed light the smoke bomb. Pretend was my intent. Seriously.
From my limited car window experience I was confident that the fuse wouldn’t catch right away anyway. If it did - big deal; what’s a little puff of smoke? Boy, was I ever majorly mistaken!
Not only did the fuse catch upon the slightest of contact, but the flame instantly zipped along the wick like a Mission Impossible intro, igniting a fiery eruption that singed the ceiling, and sent everyone dashing for the door.
Everyone except me and O’Malley - I was crippled; he was froze.
After five or so seconds of sizzling combustion, the smoke, and oodles of it, began to billow and permeate the room like fog on a Blue Ridge morning.
One would have thought it was from a five-alarm fire. Was that really only a cheap harmless incendiary? Maybe that "smoke bomb" was something much more powerful.
O’Malley came to, and immediately began to open windows and flap a towel to whisk the smoke away, all the while commanding the departed to return and assist. It was an impressive frantic effort, akin to water bucket brigades of our pioneer past.
Smoke escaped to the lobby and hallways. Sympathetic volunteers joined the struggle. There was little I could do other than observe the pandemonium as the air cleared and appreciate the benevolence of fellow dorm mates trying to remove the evidence of my arson.
It was his nose, not eyes, which cued Mr. Appleby that something was amiss. He walked in the lobby to confirm what he thought he detected.
“Do I smell smoke?” he queried as his eyes scanned the room in a circular rotation.
“Smoke, Mr. Appleby?”
That was Bob Lorenzo. He was a Cuban Costello to O’Malley’s Irish Abbott; Laurel to his Hardy; Barney to his Andy. Bob never needed a punch line to be funny. He just was.
Bob once sat in a second floor windowsill of his dorm room playing his guitar as two sad faced sweethearts were calling it quits. With a pained face Bob crooned "Breaking up is so hard to do."
Hard or not, they did; the serenade became the suitor, and Bob and Pam are still married these thirty odd years later.
Ah, Bob Lorenzo, what a character!
"Smoke, Mr. Appleby?"
I think it was the accent and timing of his elocution. I’ll never forget how the skeptical “smoke” wafted from his quizzical jaw. It was as if Dr. Watson was asking, "Smoke, Mr. Holmes?"
“Smoke, Mr. Appleby?” It was a question with the implied answer of “Surely you know there couldn’t be smoke within a million miles of here!”
Bob saved the day, for a day. Mr. Appleby believed him, and the matter was over. Well, for then - but not for long.
Before leaving his office, I had to know how he found out.
“Carl’s conscience,” He revealed with a satisfied smile.
Carl, a roommate with a super sensitive I’m-know-I’m-going-to-go-to-Hell kind of conscience decided to come clean. We were a Baptist college, not Catholic, but Carl felt compelled to confess to Father Appleby.
Carl had nothing to do with the smoke bomb. He wasn’t even in the room. His sin, he felt, was sitting silently in a corner of the lobby when Bob uttered his clever dodge.
“I lied,” Carl concluded. “My silence said there was no smoke. I lied. There was.”
I guess silence was no longer an option as he then disclosed, “And Bird is the one who lit it.” Hmmm… maybe it was retaliation for when I had everyone in the room synchronize their clocks an hour ahead just to watch Carl frantically sprint into an empty classroom. His baffled look was Candid Camera worthy. That was funny. But not to Carl.
The ten demerits I received, a merciful amount in fact, was just enough to put me over the limit for dismissal. Not only did Mr. Appleby trust the innocence of my intent, he also looked askance at my startling history of deviant behavior. He saw that my criminal record was rife with neglect, not vice. I would not be dismissed. Several of the demerit policies were actually rewritten to avoid such a dilemma in the future. Besides, my parents always paid on time.
Carl also received ten demerits… for lying. What else could ease his guilt-ridden soul? Wiseacre Mr. Appleby knew there had to be ample penalty for there to be adequate peace. Now Carl could sleep at night.
Wayne lit the match, but I lit the fuse. Therein is the difference.
A match is a temporary tool - gives off a little heat, shines a little light. The lit match is the expresser, short lived with slight consequence, unless it ignites the fuse. The lit fuse is the enforcer. Something will explode. Something, or someone, will get burned. And smoke will fill the room. Lots of blinding, choking smoke will fill your room.
And you won’t be happy.
3. You Might Be Right (I Might Be Wrong)
So light the match, not the fuse.
And I am talking to you. The tendency is to suppose this is about somebody else. You may have already thought of an unhappy enforcer in your life. Maybe it’s your spouse, boss, or next door neighbor.
But it might be you. And it’s vital to happiness to grasp it might be you.
On her way out the back door, a pious parishioner persistently praised the parson (try to say that swiftly seven times), “You sure let ‘em have it today, preacher!” On one occasion the pastor particularly targeted this individual who nonetheless declared, “Boy, preacher, you really let ‘em have it today!”
One snowy Sunday, the minister, who resided next door, and the lady, who lived a few blocks away, were the only ones present. Perfect! The sermon was intentionally and unmistakably personalized. From beginning to end, it hit her up one side and down the other as if she were a cork dart board. The preacher, satisfied she had nowhere to hide, was vexed to hear her enthusiastically exclaim afterward, “My, preacher, if only they would have been here, you sure would have let ‘em have it!”
Knowing that two men in our congregation could feel directly implicated by my subject, I remember delicately delivering my message so as not to be too obvious. Though very carefully discreet, sure enough, two men immediately confronted me following the service.
“I know that sermon was for me,” said the one.
“It had my name all over it,” agreed the other.
I was amazed and amused. Those weren’t the two I had in mind.
More than once I have employed poetry to soften the barb of my pointed purpose. English bard William Cowper, of both brilliant and mad mind, wrote:
I, who scribble rhyme
To catch the triflers of the time,
And tell them truths divine and clear
Which, couched in prose, they would not hear.
My magnum opus, or so I thought at the time, was Shem Zook and the Grand Ol’ Book. It was a satirical story in verse penned for a progressive group of Amish friends intended to awaken them to their habit of putting new wine in old bottles (Mark 2:22). I copied delightful pictures from a children’s book about the Pennsylvania Dutch to illustrate my assault, and mailed each family a copy of what had turned into a small booklet.
Then I waited. And waited. No response. I later ran into G. C. Waldrep, Duke and Harvard grad, author and poet, who remarkably had joined this Amish community. He mentioned receiving my poem.
“Oh, so everyone got it?” I wondered aloud, meaning both via the postman and of the point.
“Yes, they got it.” He assured, but did he only mean in the mail?
“Well, what did they think?” I probed.
“They loved it!”
That was puzzling. “Well, if they loved it, then they didn’t get it,” I protested.
“Oh, they got it,” G. C. affirmed. “They just thought it was for somebody else.”
There will be readers of this book who get it, but think it’s for somebody else.
Horace Greeley, famed founder of one of the earliest “penny dailies”, the New York Tribune, received thousands of letters during the mid 1800’s, a time of momentous social turmoil. While tensions were escalating between North and South, he popularized the injunction “Go West, young man!”
There had never been a time quite like his, and opinions were various and vociferous. Letters to the Editor were the Twitter tweets and Facebook memes of the day. Greeley didn’t have time to reply to each and every one so everyone received the same response:
Dear Sir (or Madam):
You might be right.
Sincerely,
Horace Greeley
If you suspect this anecdote might be apocryphal - well, you might be right. I don't know. But I like it.
The difference between happy and unhappy people is in whether or not they understand that others might be right.
The Expresser can light the match without lighting the fuse. The Enforcer, convinced of being right, cannot resist lighting the fuse.
If the Enforcer could only realize he might be wrong, then he might be happy.
The Expresser may be intense, articulate, and persuasive. He may emit negative emotion and exude frustration. But as long as declarations don’t become demands and observations don’t turn into orders, the Expresser can peaceably disengage and move happily along.
He might be right. But he also knows he might be wrong. And even if absolutely certain of being correct, it is this aptitude of the attitude, the good-natured ability of the you-could-be-right temperament that promotes happiness.
It’s the mellow mindset of the genial Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof. With a thoughtful expression he responds with “He’s right” to the isolationist view of Mordcha, the local innkeeper. He then hears the exact opposite opinion of the roaming radical Perchik and Tevye concedes, “He’s right.”
“He’s right? And he’s right?” a puzzled Avram, the bookseller, objects, “They can’t both be right.” Unflappable Tevye agrees, “You know, you’re also right.”
Not so the Enforcer. His inability to peaceably disengage is the root of his unhappiness. That’s a mouthful, and a sour one at that. In the proverbial nutshell, the Enforcer must have his way (he is right!), or be miserable and make miserable in the attempt.
I hate smoking! The Expresser lights the match.
You will not smoke! The Enforcer lights the fuse.
That’s the difference.
And I am talking to you.
4. Mean is Miserable
Mules have been unfairly maligned. Stubborn as a mule is a stubborn maxim. But mules are not stubborn; they are sensible.
“It is really only an abundance of common sense,” Champion mule owner Meredith Hodges insists, “and a strong desire for self-preservation that might make them inclined to resist.”
What is considered unfavorable in mules is touted as a virtue in humans. “I know I can be stubborn,” an inflexible scoundrel proclaims, “but I stand up for what I believe in.” He’s not confessing. He’s boasting.
“I may be blunt,” says a harsh critic, “but you know I tell it like it is!”- confusing his repulsive personality with an honest character. “You might think I’m a bit rough,” blusters a blowhard, “but ain’t nobody gonna walk all over me.” So ill-tempered windbags perceive themselves as courageous warriors.
Here’s the reality: Enforcers aren’t virtuously stubborn; they’re viciously mean. Their bluntness is brutality; their courage hatefulness. They’re not nice people.
Mean, mean, mean! And mean is miserable.
We sing at our summer camp:
If you’re not kind, you’re the wrong kind-
So please be kind.
If you give smiles, it will be smiles
That you will find.
If you’re friendly, you’ll have friends, see-
And it’s a fact-
If you love life, you will find life
Will love you back!
Nice is happy; mean is mis-er-a-ble!
You won’t be happy if you’re an unkind soul.
You can’t be grumpy, and it not take its toll (oll… oll... oll)-
Nice is happy; mean is mis-er-a-ble!
What Doc indicated by the tone of his animated description was that the unhappy Enforcer is not motivated by determination or inspired by benevolence. They are stimulated by meanness.
Here’s a test to know your motivation. Are you grieved? Or are you angry? If you are motivated by kindness, you will be hurt, not hostile, at a loved one’s self destruction.
In parenting, positive discipline is prompted by genuine concern, not annoyance. Mad moms and furious fathers are terrible parents. Children raised on rage suffer horrific results. Exacting consequences out of exasperation over embarrassment, indignation over inconvenience, or displeasure over disappointment, is not healthy discipline; it is destructive punishment.
If you’re mad because you’re embarrassed, you’re not nice. If you’re incensed because you’ve been put out, you're mean. If you’re fuming because you’ve been let down, you’re an unhappy person.
Doc didn’t cite any extensive studies connecting the mean, controlling Enforcer to unhappiness, but based on much other such research, I’m confident his ample case files would reinforce his conclusion.
In one test, 86 participants divided into three groups. Over a ten day period, one group was to complete a daily act of kindness, another was to do something new each day, and the third received no instructions. Afterward, everyone retook a life satisfaction survey they had filled out before the ten days. The first two groups experienced a significant increase in happiness. Those in the third group weren’t any happier.
Another study found a “positive feedback loop” between doing for others and happiness. Fifty-one participants recalled purchases made for others or for themselves and recorded their happiness. Those who recalled purchases for others “reported feeling significantly happier.” All were then given funds to anonymously spend on themselves or someone else. The revealing outcome was that “the happier participants felt, the more likely they were to choose to spend a windfall on someone else in the near future.” Nice was happy, and happy was nice.
Action for Happiness came up with a list of 10 Keys to Happier Living, “based on an extensive review of the latest research about what really helps people flourish.” At the top of the list: “Do things for others. Caring for others is fundamental to our happiness… So if you want to feel good, do good.”
It’s really self evident. Nice is happy. Mean is miserable. I know when I’m not nice, I’m not happy. When I’ve let someone “have it”, I “lose it” in the process. Give somebody a piece of your mind- lose your own peace of mind.
Being pleasant is a present
You give yourself;
Loving, caring, giving, sharing
Brings its own wealth.
But the mean ones are the lean ones,
Empty and sad-
All the fine folks are the kind folks,
Happy and glad!
Nice is happy; mean is mis-er-a-ble!
You won’t be happy if you’re an unkind soul.
You can’t be grumpy, and it not take its toll-
Nice is happy; mean is mis-er-a-ble!
I’ve often heard “being bitter is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.” The bitter people I’ve known in my lifetime have been Enforcers. Their bitterness stems from and wallows in something not going their way. And they can’t let it go.
Because an Expresser can unhitch from an unpleasant interaction, they’re not torn off track by any train wreck that follows. The Enforcer hangs on and is torn off and stays tore up.
The difference between the wounded Expresser and the offended Enforcer is the distinguishing characteristic of the bitter: spite. Spite is the desire to hurt. There is a huge difference between being hurt and wanting to hurt. The hunger to hurt is motivated by meanness bent on revenge.
The hurt can be happy; those who do the hurting cannot. Just as forgiveness is a gift you give yourself, you hurt yourself hurting others. Or even wanting to. And your bitter braying reveals that you are not a sensible mule; you’re a mean jackass.
5. Honey Bear, Go Get That Pig!
Enforcers are not only mean; they are mad.
Rhudy was a Japanese Bantam rooster. Miniature and ornamental are words used to describe this breed of barn bird. He was truly adorable. Colorful and cute, he looked like a ceramic collectible on a knick knack shelf.
Daughter Kayleigh loved Rhudy. Of my nine offspring, she was similarly miniature and ornamental, and Rhudy became her treasured alter ego pet. There were other critters to choose from- Henny Penny, a free range Rhode Island Red with a dozen biddies in tow; Tom Turkey, a domesticated gobbler who fancied himself wild; doe-eyed nanny goats Ola Belle and Lilly Mae; twin tabby cats Tab and Chloe; and an inseparable circle of canine mongrels, Reesy, Jake, and Lizzy.
And then there was the pig.
I don’t remember its name, or if it even had a name. It’s unlikely anyone got attached enough to name it. Compact and bristle haired, it was not a pretty piggy. It was quite ugly. It was not a pleasant pig. Snarly and gruff, he was the bully of the barn, and had to be confined in a pen.
Into this amusing menagerie entered a most remarkable puppy. Sally Roberts, the local rodeo rancher, gave her to us. As beautifully marked as she was genetically magnificent, we were immediately smit by and knit to this furry phenom. We named her Honey Bear. Pedigreed, her mom was a trained champion border collie, winning the distinction in Sheep Dog Trials by adroitly driving a herd of sheep whithersoever her dog handler directed.
The pig was still the bully, but Honey Bear had become the Belle, when calamity erupted.
“DAAAA-DY!”
I knew this panicked cry meant something horrible was happening. My children could be melodramatic, but this harrowing scream signaled real fear and danger. Everyone bolted to the barn. Kayleigh was in overwhelming distress. The pig was loose and after Rhudy. I wish I could tell you we made it in time. We didn’t. To our horror, we saw the monstrous swine swallow poor little Rhudy in two bites. Chomp. Chomp.
Despair exploded into outrage. Fervor to rescue Rhudy became fury to capture the pig. As a youngster I had participated in a greased pig contest at the local horse show. The grease quickly freed the pig from a tangle of boys, but I was never sure it needed it. In this case, our now terrified pig found out how Rhudy felt fleeing from him. We dashed and darted as he zigged and zagged. We stumbled and tumbled as he squealed and squawled. Like the slippery slapstick of the Keystone Cops, we wildly dove with arms flapping and coming up empty.
In the midst of this bedlam a hyper Honey Bear could hardly contain herself, but with innate restraint she stayed on the sidelines. Her champion bloodline was itching for the chase, but required instructions. The killer had escaped to the woods, and after picking myself off the ground for the umpteenth time, I saw my eager wunderkind frantically begging me to solicit her help. Her eyes were pleading “Please Master, tell me what to do!”
Exasperated, I barked, “Honey Bear, go get that pig!” Her riveted eyes widened as if to ask, “Really? Really? Can I really?” She quivered with zeal! Understanding now how earnest she was, I stiffened like a five star general, pointed and emphatically commanded, “Honey Bear... GO... GET... THAT... PIG!”
You may have just anticipated where this story is going. I have to admit that if I had not seen this for myself, I would doubt the veracity of anyone who would tell such a whopper. Doubt it you may, but tell it I must. Honey Bear made a beeline for the dense underbrush concealing our fugitive. Unseen from yards away, but not unheard for miles, the awfulest growling and grunting contest commenced.
Suddenly unsure of who might emerge victorious, I second-guessed sending my beloved pet into this savage clash. A breathless minute passed before the pig surfaced first. Seconds later our worst fears were dispelled when a charging Honey Bear came hot at the heels of her retreating adversary.
It was not the Sheep Dog Trials her mom had mastered, but Honey Bear was a champ. With the swift darting of her head left-right-left and the ardent glare of her eyes, our heroic herder brought her mesmerized prey right to my feet. No training. Just pure instinct. Momma used to say “If I lived to be a hundred and five, I’d never forget it.” Honey Bear made just the right movements to keep the pig froze with fear until I reached down and grabbed the quarry.
I’ve since discovered that border collies consistently top the list of smartest dog breeds. A border collie named Chaser learned to recognize 1,022 separate items by name. That smashed the previous record of Rico, same breed, who had a 200 word vocabulary.
What does this have to do with happiness? Just this. In the same pursuit of the pig, we were miserable but Honey Bear was happy. We were frustrated. She was fulfilled. For us, catching the pig was to exact punishment. For Honey Bear, it was to pursue a purpose.
It’s the difference between anger and accomplishment. Anger can supply energy, but not skill. It can give motivation, but not wisdom. Anger is destructive, not productive. And again, enforcers are not only mean, they are mad. Mad and mean go together. Mean people get mad and mad people get mean.
I was discussing this chapter with close friend Todd Atwell, who is one of the most chill people I know. I said, “Anger makes people stupid.” Gentle Todd quickly agreed, “I know I’ve done a lot of stupid things when I was angry. How many are in prison because they did something stupid when they were mad?”
If I live to be a hundred and five
Cooperative or controlling
You don’t feel good when you get your way
You can start out with a good loving purpose, but then it goes south
How to tell the difference between expressing and enforcing
You can’t buy happiness, but you can buy this book.
6. Hetty the Horrible
It is claimed that Hetty Green, the richest woman in the world during America’s Gilded Age once spent half a night searching for a two cent stamp. She allegedly had only the hem of her long dress washed to save on soap. The rest of her one black dress didn’t get dirty anyway, and she didn’t change her undergarments until they completely wore out. No one could see them.
When Henrietta Howland Robinson married millionaire merchant Edward Henry Green she made him renounce all rights to her considerable fortune. Already born into wealth bloated by blubber (her family owned a large whaling fleet), by the time she married at thirty-three, “Hetty” had become a millionaire ten times over as her Mom Abby, then an Aunt, and finally Dad Edward breathed their last and bequeathed their all to their dour daughter and neurotic niece.
She banked another $600,000 contesting her Aunt Sylvia’s will. It took five years of legal battles and an handwriting expert declaring a forgery the last will specifying most of her estate go to charity. Hetty was not charitable. By age six she was reading financial papers to her visually impaired father, opened her first bank account at eight, and became family bookkeeper at thirteen.
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