The day most of my classmates came down from the tree

Billy Honecker possessed a unique notion of who could climb the oak tree at our elementary school. I'm not quite sure what it was, but somehow his concept centered on whether he approved of you or not.

If questioned about why he told you to go away if coming near the oak, Billy always gave some reason. Linda liked to read books, and that bothered him because no one should read too much. Wendy was overweight, and if she got onto the first branch, he was sure she'd break it - then our tree never would be the same again. As for Jim, there was nothing wrong with him exactly, but his father didn't hunt, so that made the son a bit suspicious.

This occurred back in the days when schools weren't concerned about being sued if a kid fell from a tree and broke his arm. Back then, a good climbing tree was just considered another piece of playground equipment.

And what a grand tree it was: wide swaths of sturdy branches whose top stood as tall as the school building itself. It grew on a slope, so if you stood upon the north side, there was less tree to climb before reaching that first branch. The principal had a rule that we couldn't go higher than that, but some of us tried reaching the top anyway.

• • •

If there was one kid who could reach the top, it was Scott. Skinny as a No. 2 pencil, his arms held Popeye-like strength, which made him a little weird to look at but perfect for climbing trees. He could pull himself up to the next limb with ease but was light enough that the ever thinning branches beneath his feet wouldn't crack.

One day while Billy had to stay inside for the first part of recess, we decided the perfect opportunity had arrived to see if Scott could climb the tree. The teacher would be busy with Billy, after all. So as the sun shined down upon us and the unpicked September corn waved in the breeze in the field beyond, we gazed up to watch Scott ascend.

He'd made it half way up, to the fourth branch from the ground, when Billy arrived from his conference.

"What's he doing up there?" Billy wailed.

"He's trying to reach the top," someone said.

"He's not allowed in our tree," Billy said. "He talks stupid."

We had to admit, Scott's voice was a little different than ours. But you got used to it, and after awhile didn't even notice.

"That's dumb," Linda said as she marched off. "Why don't you try being more tolerant?"

"Tolerant" was one of those buzzwords the teacher bandied about.

"Give me a break," Billy said. "Don't say I'm not tolerant when you're not tolerant of what I think!"

• • •

To our fourth-grade minds, Billy had a point. How could we criticize someone for being intolerant without being intolerant ourselves? Didn't Billy have a right to not like someone, no matter how dumb the reason seemed? And who were we to think his ideas were dumb anyway?

Fortunately I had a crush on this blonde haired girl who essentially was the valedictorian of our 12-person class. So I always was trying to be smart and had borrowed "How to Win an Argument" from a friend's dad, who taught rhetoric at a nearby college. The book didn't make much sense, but it helped me figure out why my father always won our arguments.

It struck me at that moment that Billy was applying a logical fallacy, specifically a type of ad hominem argument. Linda's claim had been "refuted" by attacking her rather than her contention. In short, Linda didn't practice what she preached and so had no reason to be critical.

It's kind of like when one drunk says to the other, "You know, we've got a drinking problem," and the other responds, "You're a drunk, so don't call me one!" - and they just keep on getting soused.

And Billy just keeps on being intolerant.

I figured there was no point in explaining this to him. "Scott, come on down, we'll go somewhere else," I said. He did, and then the rest of us kids, awed at how far he'd gotten, scrambled after him, leaving Billy to clamber around the oak by himself, all red in the face the whole while.

(originally published Nov. 14, 2004)