People fall into two philosophical categories in life: stump finders and stump dodgers. You see, when it comes time for a group of kids to sled down a new hill, someone has to go first. When the snow is deep enough, you can’t see exactly what’s on that hill. The first one down usually has a few mishaps, possibly even smashing a finger or two as he makes his way to the bottom. A stinging faceful of snow also is common.

After one or two more kids meet a similar fate, down go the stump dodgers. They make their way as smooth and easy as if they’d made that run a hundred times. Stump dodging might not have been as exciting, but it usually was a lot less painful.

It was the middle of the summer, but it was a year ’round philosophy. I needed a stump finder, but I had the unique problem that day of staring at a big group of stump dodgers.

I got the impression the kids thought I was some kind of whacko who wanted to throw them off the nearest cliff. I can’t say I blame them, because they had never met me before that day’s family reunion, and the cliff was only about 30 feet away. After sitting around chatting with all those old folks I was ready for a little craziness. “Come on. I’ll go if you’ll go,” I said. For the most part, they looked at me like I was a nut case.

I guess I’m not as good at selling as my brother. There I was with five kids, two at least 10 years of age, and I couldn’t convince one of them to jump. I reasoned with them. “It’ll be fun,” I said. “It’s a hot day, and that water down there will cool you off.” Nope, they weren’t biting.

When I was their age my brother didn’t have to use much energy convincing me. He could say, “just one more pitch” about ten times, and I would keep right on pitching. Almost every time, I ended up getting hurt. He didn’t actually aim at me, but inevitably that ball would find its way from his bat to my face.

Perhaps that was what those kids knew: if you let someone talk you into something you don’t want to do, regardless of their intentions, you might get burned. I had to convince them that if you let someone talk you into something you don’t want to do, and use some common sense, it could be a lot of fun.

Do you want to know my real reason for trying so hard to convince them? I was a stump dodger. There I was in my mid-twenties, trying to get kids half my age to be my guinea pigs. I had always been somewhat of a chicken, and this time was no exception. I was great at feeding ideas to the bold one in every bunch.

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“You know why they don’t want to jump, don’t you?” said my father just after I had shoveled a fork-load of mashed potatoes into my mouth. He was a dentist, so he was an expert at asking people questions when they had no chance of answering. It’s one thing to do that to people when they’re under the gas, but there are ways around it at the dinner table.

I tilted my head down and held my hand up with one finger in the air to signal for some chewing time. All my life he had told me to chew my food completely, and not to talk with my mouth full, but it’s kind of tough when someone across the table keeps firing questions like Ted Koppel.

At that moment I realized why “creamed” and “mashed” were not interchangeable descriptions of potatoes. Perhaps creamed potatoes went down smoothly, but the uncooked chunks in those mashed potatoes gave my jaws a workout. Dad patiently waited while I chewed.

My wife, Shannon, patted me on the back. “Your dad asked you a question, honey.”