All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten: Uncommon Thoughts on Common Things

Fulghum describes his experience at the Grand National Old-Time Fiddlers Contest in Weiser, Idaho. Typically a remote location, Weiser becomes a cultural hotspot every June for the festival, drawing visitors from around the world. Initially a traditional event for country folk, the festival was adapted to include diverse participants. The essence of the festival, however, remains focused on the music, with judges evaluating performances based solely on sound rather than appearance. Fulghum highlights the inclusive, celebratory atmosphere where differences dissolve in shared musical passion, illustrated by a scene with a banjo-playing policeman who reflects on the joy of the event. The essay underscores music’s power to unite people beyond differences.

Fulghum describes an encounter with a former student who seeks to confess a past misdeed. During his senior year, while his parents were away, he threw a party. During the party, a guest vomited on a cherished family Bible. Unable to clean it, the student replaced it with a new one. Years later, he confesses this to Fulghum, who responds with his own embarrassing tale from his teaching days, where a desperate situation led him to use a bucket in the janitor’s office as a toilet. These confessions underscore the theme of youthful indiscretions and the ingenious, if sometimes embarrassing, lengths to which people go to hide their mistakes. The story concludes on a reflective note, where Fulghum and the student acknowledge that everyone has hidden embarrassments and that sharing these stories can be cathartic.

In “The Names of Things,” Fulghum humorously critiques the peculiar names assigned to North American wildflowers, such as “Bastard Toad-flax.” He wonders about the temperaments of those who looked at these plants and decided to assign these names to them. Fulghum reflects on the broader implications of naming, questioning whether a new generation could improve upon these names and acknowledging the rapid pace of species evolution that outstrips naming efforts. He playfully imagines what names plants might give humans. The essay highlights the absurdity of human attempts to label the natural world, emphasizing humanity’s ephemeral role within Earth’s long history.

A question from a party hostess sends Fulghum ruminating on the panoply of choices that fall under the category of “designer water,” having to do with carbonation, source, and more. Unlike indulgences such as wine or liquor, whose marketing strategies are often similar, Fulghum emphasizes the relatively modest cost of water and its enhancement of life’s poetic aspects. Fulghum shares personal anecdotes about water with sentimental value, water from historic or meaningful locations like Delphi, Greece, or memorable personal experiences. He concludes that water gets its value not from the marketplace, but from the memories and associations it evokes.

Fulghum challenges conventional wisdom on health and longevity promoted by his doctor wife. He introduces his own concept called “Third Aid”—a play on the well-known idea of “First Aid”—which he describes as a preventative approach focusing on simple self-checks. He emphasizes the placebo effect, suggesting that many conditions improve with time and positive thinking, reducing the need for medical intervention. Fulghum advocates for self-awareness and meeting basic needs as a strategy for health, favoring quality of life over its length. He stresses enjoying life’s pleasures rather than extending life unnaturally, with a desire to die happily rather than in a hospital.

Fulghum describes a tradition from the Solomon Islands where villagers can cut down large trees simply by yelling at them for a sustained period of time. (He admits, parenthetically, that while he doesn’t remember where he read about this practice, he definitely remembers reading about it.) He contrasts this seemingly primitive practice with the behavior of modern, technologically advanced societies where people frequently yell at inanimate objects like telephones and cars, highlighting the absurdity common to both, but also the shared insight that certain kinds of words, when yelled at living things, can break the spirit.

Fulghum shares an interaction with Donnie, a young boy who is deaf and offers to rake leaves for money. Initially reluctant, Fulghum is moved by Donnie’s earnestness and agrees to the task after negotiating a fair price—though not without some extended parenthetical asides about the merits of yard care. Donnie works meticulously, showing pride and collecting keepsake leaves, and returns diligently the next day to finish the job, even after being paid in advance. Fulghum, initially cynical, is touched by Donnie’s dedication, choosing to appreciate the human connection. The experience teaches Fulghum about the importance of embracing simple, earnest human efforts and letting go of rigid expectations. In a postscript, he reports that Donnie has continued to thrive and now runs a horticultural business.

In San Francisco, Fulghum strikes up a conversation with a man from Wisconsin, whose t-shirt, which requests help in preventing tectonic plate movement, catches Fulghum’s eye. After learning that the man’s children are skeptical of the concept and bought the shirt as a joke, he and Fulghum discuss the public’s skepticism about complex scientific theories, ranging from reproductive biology to geology. The essay takes a more humorous turn when Fulghum invokes a chicken named Clucky-Lucky from San Luis Obispo to support the theory that birds are descended from dinosaurs. Clucky-Lucky became unusually large for her size by drinking beer out of slug traps and eating cat food made from chickens: becoming, essentially, an “alcoholic cannibal” with more than a passing resemblance to a dinosaur. The wife of the man from Wisconsin remains skeptical of the whole thing, but Fulghum illustrates the challenge of conveying scientific truths in a world where they’re often perceived as more fantastical than fiction.

Fulghum examines how the car someone drives reflects his or her identity. He narrates his own struggle to replace his car, considering various options that either do not fit his or his wife’s self-image or practical needs. In contrast, Fulghum fondly recalls a simpler, joyful memory of riding in a pickup truck with family before he was worried about appearing a certain way in public. The nostalgic reflection reveals a longing for authenticity and meaningful experiences.

Fulghum recalls living on a dead-end street in Seattle, which, despite visibly being identified as a dead end, with signs and reflectors, continually had people driving down it, only to be surprised when it ended. Generally, he says, the drivers would make a hurried U-turn, often damaging yards and gardens in the process. Fulghum muses on this pattern as a reflection of human denial and the innate desire to push boundaries, even when faced with clear limits. He questions whether additional signs or explanations would alter behavior, but suspects they would not, suggesting a deep-rooted human need to challenge the inevitable.

Fulghum reflects on his wife’s requirement to re-certify as a physician every seven years, which prompts him to consider the benefits of lifelong learning and periodic competency exams for everyone. He imagines a system where adults must regularly prove their knowledge and skills in critical areas like literacy, civics, health, and personal finance to maintain their status as competent members of society. His speculative discourse questions whether it’s possible to truly measure and certify life’s complex competencies.