All I Ever Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

Tom Greene

A few weeks ago my bride and I started doing some post holiday clean out. I came across an old paperback copy of one of my favorite books: All I Really Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, by Robert Fulghum.

This book was published in 1986. The year I graduated from high school. The year I started college. 1986 was a glorious year, for sure. 

I decided to re-read this book to see if the yellowing pages had the same impact on me after some 30-plus years stuffed in a box.  

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The book is comprised of short stories. The kind of stories that make us feel good. The kind that make us think about everyday happenings. The kind that make us slow down, and savor life for a minute. Old school stuff, for sure.

You see this book is really about a set of rules. Rules of living decently with other human beings. Rules that were relevant to adults (and kindergarteners) in 1986. But who knew that we would need these rules even more today. A lot more.  

Rules like “Play fair” and “Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.”  Basic things that we all learned before we could even write our own name with a broken Magenta crayon. Before we realized that nobody wants the white crayon or the white jelly beans. Before we realized that a “smock” was really just our dad’s old dress shirt. Before we questioned if we could really sing or dance. (Of course we can). 

But somewhere along the way we’ve lost these rules. Rules of common decency. 

Share everything.

Don't hit people.

Put things back where you found them.

It seems as if the more our world speeds up, the less we remember these rules. As if the speed of life negates the need to share and say your sorry when you mess up. As if we’ve earned the right not to put things back where we found them. 

We work crazy hours. Then we go home to bury our face in our phone as we watch another episode of The Voice for the third night in a row.

We forget what it felt like to see the world afresh. To draw and paint without judgement. To listen to stories with child-like curiosity. To sing and dance like nobody's watching.  

Back when we were full of optimism and an unwavering sense of adventure. When every day was new. When every day was exciting. We couldn’t wait to go home. And we couldn’t wait to come back tomorrow. 

Clean up your own mess.

Don't take things that aren't yours.

Wash your hands before you eat.

Flush.

How I long for that unbridled excitement. That unadulterated wonder at the world around us. The wonder of a child. Long before the world begins to temper our expectations. When our emotions were lifted beyond the heavens by the smell of a brand-new box of Crayola 64’s with the built in sharpener.

I can still vividly remember the much-anticipated field trip to Mathis Dairy. It was the highlight of the year. And I got chosen to actually milk the cow, Rosebud.  I can still smell that nasty heifer. I can still feel that udder in my hands. And hear the squirt of milk hitting the metal pail. Before we left they gave us cold, chocolate milk in glass bottles with straws. It was heaven. 

The Mathis Dairy Farm began dairy tours for children in the 1950’s, where visitors received the prestigious “I Milked Rosebud” buttons. The beloved cow participated in charity events and was milked by celebrities and politicians, including Jimmy Carter. It is rumored that the Chic-Fil-A cows are all direct descendent of Rosebud.

Can you imagine if we had heeded that advice? Like the advice to clean up our own messes. Perhaps we wouldn't have to contemplate a garbage dump the size of Texas floating in the Pacific Ocean. Or argue about whether we should eat Rosebud for dinner. Or drink from a single-use, plastic straw. Or whether we are all gonna drown in exactly 12.3 years. How silly all that might seem to us. 

Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.

Live a balanced life - learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day.

Isn’t it true that life is still pretty simple at its core? It’s our human interpretation and our desire to complicate things that causes trouble. That little voice in our head that wants to make everything so darn complicated. As Fulghum expresses in the book, “The examined life is no picnic.”