Speaking to Inspire

Someone asked me yesterday, “Well, how did your speech go?” She was referring to my speech — ‘Adam Had a Garden’ — presented to The Warkworth Community Service Club on Thursday last. In my response, I mentioned three individuals whose words were fresh in my mind.

The first person whose words left an impression on me came up to me shortly after I had delivered the speech. She asked me if I remembered her. I had to admit I did not. I’m finding people I haven’t seen for some time are looking older (myself excepted). She reminded me she had attended a reading club I had hosted at my farm in 2003 and that her name was Carol. But what struck me was what Carol confided to me. It had nothing to do with the humorous speech I had just delivered. She said she had fallen into a bad bout of depression, she found my book at the bookstore in Havelock (Cottage Country Books), and that it had really helped her.

The second person whose words touched me was Jan Wood. She is the one who shot my 11 speech introductions and uploaded them to my YouTube channel. At the last minute, I asked if she could shoot my speech in Warkworth. No, only because she was giving an on-line seminar that evening. But she would loan me her camera. (And a kind man at the club by the name of Cullen set it up and took charge of the shooting. Thank you, Cullen.) When I returned the camera the next day, Jan said to me she didn’t mind admitting to me that she’d had a hard time the last couple months [she had lost a family member], because I knew what depression was all about. (She was referring to the fact that, as I admit in my book and in my speeches, I was admitted in 1993 to a Toronto hospital  under the care of a psychiatrist, was prescribed four strong drugs, and, among other problems, ended up with short-term brain memory damage.)  Then she said she had picked up my book on depression the other day, had finished reading it the same day, and that it had helped her. Then she said, “You do important stuff, and I want to help you get it out there.”

The third person, whose words I remember, was club memberJohn Belton who was in charge of introducing me to the audience. In a conversation earlier in the week, he had, in referring to members of the club, used the expression “Vitamin V — for volunteering.” I hadn’t heard this one before, quoted it in my speech, and consider it a masterful metaphor, whoever came up with it. In my speech, I said that when my daughter was eight years old, I had heard her say to her brother in the yard, “You know, I feel better when I give something away.” In my speech, I told the 75 club members and guests that I believe that in life there is a bounce-back. That what I give to others — good or bad — I effectively give to myself.

What do I see in common among these three people? They’re on the wavelength of giving. John saw his fellow club members as volunteering to help. Although she couldn’t attend the dinner meeting in person, Jan gave me the use of her camera to support my calling. Carol effectively came back and gave me a ‘thank you’ for researching and writing my book on depression that ended up helping her.

To me, it seemed somehow ironic that after a speech intended to supply more smiles than wisdom, most of the feedback I received was essentially “Thank you, Murray, for writing your book on depression.” Ironic or not, I’m glad that in my speech (‘Adam Had a Garden’) I did make one reference to my own experience of depression. It reminds me of the words of a student at Norwood District High School after my speech on the link between depression and teenage suicide — “It wasn’t a speech by someone who didn’t know what it’s actually like to be depressed…and how to fix it.”

I may not know exactly how you feel about giving help to others, but I do know how Jan and Carol feel about the help they reported receiving. And I know how I feel when someone gives me a ‘thank you’, or buys one of my CDs or books for someone they know is struggling, or engages me to make a speech. And I know how I feel when I try, in my books and speeches, to give away smiles, wisdom and encouragement. I feel better when I give something away.

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The particular book referred to above is If Only Sleep Would Last Forever: Help for Depression and Anxiety from One Who’s Been There. In my books and speeches, my intention is to share smiles, wisdom and encouragement — to lift your life. If I can help you by sending you a copy of this book, or making a speech to one of your groups (schools, churches, service clubs, libraries), please contact me.

‘The Wheelbarrow’ — a short story in the book Steel Buggy Wheels on a Hard Dirt Road     

People often ask me questions about my short story: Where did it come from?  How did it come to win an award? How did it end up in your book Steel Buggy Wheels on a Hard Dirt Road?          

Where did it come from? Two summers ago I was driving west from Huntsville across to highway 69 leading north to Parry Sound where I once lived and taught school. This connecting route, # 141, was really fun to drive, with its winding turns and rolling hills. There were many drive-ways along this highway and the woods carowded right up to their edges. Near the end of one of these narrow lane-ways I noticed an overturned wheelbarrow. And a story started to form in my mind. (I’ve tried writing others, but this one seemed to virtually write itself.)      

How did it come to win an award? In April of this year I entered Toastmasters International speech Contest, in Area 43, held in Peterborough. The speech I decided to deliver was this short story. It turned out that I finished in second place. A lady in the audience came up to me afterward and persuaded me to do something I had never done  — enter the story in a writing contest. “Well,” she said, “you were runner-up in this speaking competition, and your story is touching and well written.”  In the writing contest, it was awarded first place.       

How did it end up in Steel Buggy Wheels on a Hard Dirt Road? When I finished writing the story, I e-mailed a copy to my daughter. She read it and immediately e-mailed it to a friend. Reportedly there was Kleenex used. And my daughter said, “Publish it, Dad.” The question was ‘Where?’ At the time, I was working on my twenty-fifth book, Steel Buggy Wheels on a Hard Dirt Road, a collection of snippets including family biography, autobiography and philosophy/spirituality. I told my daughter that I wanted to have this particular book published professionally (which would make it number three in that group alongside Smiles, Wisdom and Encouragement and If Only Sleep Would Last Forever!) So the decision was made to place it in this book, near the beginning. Although the book title itself, Steel Buggy Wheels on a Hard Dirt Road, is taken from the second piece in the book, of my experiences as a young teenager accidentally breaking a window and listening for the sounds of my parents returning (we traveked by horse-and-buggy), ‘The Wheelbarrow’ is now the opening story.  

That’s how a story that started from a driving experience ended up in my latest book and was awarded first prize in a writing contest along the way.      

The Wheelbarrow          

A man came home late and angrily woke up his young son. “How many times have I told you to put things away where they belong! I almost ran into that overturned wheelbarrow! Why did you leave it in the lane-way! Now get up and get it and put it behind the house!”           

“Daddy,” said the boy, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, “I put the wheelbarrow there because….”           

“Have you forgotten what I said about making excuses!” shouted his father.          

The young boy at once got out of bed and started dressing. “Daddy, would you please come with me? You know I’m scared of the dark.” Tears were now streaming down the soft cheeks, and his voice didn’t sound right.           

You left it there, Sissy. Go get it yourself!”           

His mother, over-hearing her husband’s voice, went to the closet and took down her son’s windbreaker and a sweater for herself. Then she bent down and pulled out two pairs of rubber boots as there were still puddles everywhere. A driving drenching storm had started two nights earlier and only ended at noon.           

She handed him his jacket and, noticing the tears on his face, stood by him as she put on her sweater and buttoned it up. He started to explain. “Mommy, you weren’t home and I was going to tell you….” She put a finger to her lips. “It’s okay, son,” she said, intending to comfort him. Then she went to get the big flashlight.           

Just before the school-bus had brought their son home, the daughter of her best friend and closest neighbour had come across-country, asking for help. They had quickly taken the same shortcut, through the fields at the back of their small farm, instead of walking out the lane-way and taking the road. When she got back home, her son was already in bed.           

Exhausted, but holding the light in one hand and her son’s hand in the other, she and her boy began walking out the long narrow dirt lane-way. The dark trees whispered mysteriously.           

When they came to the over-turned wheelbarrow, and just beyond it the small car, they stopped. She was beginning to hand the light to the boy, but he was already bending down and grasping the handles lying in the mud. Small as he was, he didn’t take long to turn it right-side up. Now it was the mother’s turn to cry.           

For where the wheelbarrow had been, there was a gaping washed-out hole. She could see in an instant, that had the boy not covered this cavity, the front corner of their small car would’ve dropped in and taken serious damage.           

Trying to stifle her sobs, she wrapped her free arm around her boy and pulled him close. Then, with the boy pushing the wheelbarrow, and his mother showing the way, they started back home. The branches of the trees reached out to touch them with friendly fingers.           

The young boy went back to bed, and his mother went to the living-room where her husband lay on the couch. He started to say, “What do you want?” but she only motioned to him. Thinking it must’ve been something important, he got up and followed her, out of the house and into the narrow drive-way. When they approached the car and his eyes followed the beam of light down into the deep pit, he uttered the sacred name. When he caught himself, he said quietly, “Good grief.”           

On their way back home he was quiet. New feelings were stirring in his heart. Automatically he put his cap on the peg, bent down and pulled off each of his rubber boots, and then immediately – although slowly, because he was finding it hard to see – found his way into the narrow hallway, and to his son’s bedroom. After knocking softly, he quietly opened the door. Well, what he came here for could wait until morning. For their son was sleeping the sleep of the innocent – the innocent misunderstood – and his father had decided who he wanted to become.           

As he was gently closing the door, he noticed tacked on the wall, above the boy’s head, at the end of the small cot, a picture of himself and his boy — and the wheelbarrow. It was when he was splitting the wood, and his son had insisted on helping him, by wheeling the firewood to the lean-to shed against the side of their house.           

That night in the country, in a little house both unpretentious and unremarkable, three people slept ‘the sleep of the just’ – a little boy who used a wheelbarrow to keep his father from having an accident with the car, a tired woman who having just helped bring her best friend’s new son into this world, encouraged her own, without one unkind word to her husband, and a man who was inspired to become a better father, because his innocent son had simply done what he thought was right, and did not insist on justifying himself.           

And that’s the story of how a young boy who turned over a wheelbarrow, helped turn over a life.           

If I can do a reading or deliver a speech to your group, please contact me.         

Murray C. Watson

‘Adam Had a Garden’ is the title of my upcoming speech to The Warkworth Service Club in the village of Warkworth, Ontario. The club, apparently one of the largest for a small community, is holding its Dinner-Business meeting at St. Paul’s United Church on the evening of November 18.

For me as a speaker, one thing will be the same but in other ways it will be a new venture. What will be the same? My use of a lectern and notes — because of my brain-memory damage. My short-term memory problem was one of several conditions that followed my being prescribed four strong drugs when I was admitted, during the summer holidays in1993, to the psychiatric wing of a Toronto hospital with major depression.

What will be new? Several things including my speech topic, age of audience and time of day. As for time, this speech will be sandwiched (pun intended) between a dinner at 6:30 and a business meeting at 7:30. Most of my speeches are delivered in the morning or afternoon. My presentation this year at St. Paul’s Elementary School in Norwood was in the morning before first recess. My two speeches at Norwood District High School were in the afternoon. When I’m not in schools, meeting time is usually in the evening, one example being my speech this year at The Toronto Public Library.

As for age, this audience will be adults only. Usually I’m in front of mainly teenage students with a few teachers. At the elementary school in Norwood, referred to above, the pupils ranged in age from nine to twelve, grade four to eight. At the high school in Norwood (I seem to like Norwood!), the students were the 13 to 14-year-old grade nines and the 16 to 17-year-old grade twelves.

It was a real joy to be with these audiences. I make it a practice to hand out a feedback form at the end of nearly all my presentations. What a lovely surprise it was to have every student hand in a completed form. One student wrote, “It wasn’t a speech by someone who didn’t actually know what it is to be depressed…and how to fix it.”

The third novelty will be my speech topic. In this case, ‘Adam Had a Garden’ is an intentionally humorous speech. I say ‘intentionally’ because even in my speeches on depression, there are lots of laughs.

When I stand in front of secondary students, the topic is usually the teen version of Down with Depression, in which I deal with the connection between teenage depression and suicide. At The Toronto Public Library, where the youngest audience member was 18, I delivered the adult version of this same speech. In both places, I drew on my own experience and from my latest-published book — If Only Sleep Would Last Forever: Help for Depression and Anxiety from One Who’s Been There. Different speeches obviously allow a speaker to serve different needs in the audiences. My original intention was to deliver that same speech on depression to the Service club. Also on my short list were The Private and the President (Abraham Lincoln), In the Land of Nod (on dreams), and my short story ‘The Wheelbarrow.’ But Adam Had a Garden seemed to rise to the top.

In front of elementary students, the topic is usually ‘Ways to Reduce Fear in Public Speaking.’ Which is rather ironic when you understand that when I gave my very first speech, which was at NDHS (you guessed it — Norwood District High School!), I fell flat on my face. In fact, for most of my life, speaking in front of others topped my list of Life’s Most Dreaded Activities. Yet, at the same time, it was my childhood dream.

Back then, I was a fearful, shy, and self-conscious little know-nothing from a little farm, having to stand up in front of a teacher (!) and peers who I saw as mainly confident, sophisticated city-slickers. What my topic was I don’t recall. What I do recall were my tied tongue, knocking knees, and that I never wanted to do it again.

Now, I see my audience members as duplicates of myself, each having some problem, needing some help. I see myself taking to my neighbours a tool of vital importance, that they really need but don’t have, and only I can give them. What I offer to share are smiles, wisdom and encouragement. Which helps me perspire a little less and maybe inspire a little more.

As a person who spent his first few weeks of life in SickKids Hospital with digestive problems, who was extremely shy, who has sleep apnea and gluten intolerance, who ended up in the psychiatric ward with major depression, who needs notes and a lectern to offset his memory damage, I consider myself privileged to stand in front of audiences of individuals like myself — individuals having some problem and needing some help — and maybe inspire one of them to overcome.

The good folks at The Warkworth Service Club may not take home any extra wisdom from ‘Adam Had a Garden,’ but they may leave with a few smiles and a little encouragement, if they have a heart — and a funnybone.

Murray C. Watson