Certainty... and Other Childhood Illusions

A Cautionary Tale of Leaves, Lies, and Swollen Eyes

Bet you can't guess what this is...

"It ain't what you don't know that gets you into trouble. It's what you know for sure that just ain't so."

— Mark Twain (I think it’s Twain… No, I’m certain of it.)

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I was seven or eight years old, and I was certain of a lot of things.

I was certain I could run faster if I held my breath.
I was certain that if I jumped at just the right moment on a swing, I’d fly.
And I was absolutely, unequivocally, unshakably certain that I knew what poison oak looked like.

I mean, my dad had just shown me on a camping trip. He’d pointed it out, real serious. “That’s the stuff right there, kiddo. Stay clear.”

I had nodded. I had listened. Well, mostly. I had also been testing different sticks, weighing them like swords, seeing how they felt in my hand. But sure, I was paying attention. Of course I was.

So when my friend Marcel and I were out in his two-acre backyard, wandering through tall grass, and he stopped and said, “Watch out, that’s poison oak,” I didn’t even hesitate.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

Marcel frowned. “My dad told me what poison oak looks like.”

I smirked. “Well, my dad told me what poison oak looks like.”

We stood there, two kids locked in a duel of secondhand knowledge, both of us convinced our dads had issued the final ruling on the matter.

This was the moment for careful consideration. A wise, thoughtful child might have said, You know, you might be right, Marcel. Let’s err on the side of caution.

But that’s not what little Glenn did.

No, little Glenn had a point to prove.

I doubled down.

“Watch this,” I said, bending down. I grabbed a fistful of leaves and rubbed them all over my face, arms, and neck. “If this was poison oak, would I be doing this?”

Marcel just watched me. Jaw slightly open. Head tilted. Like a scientist observing a lab rat walking voluntarily into a mousetrap.

There are moments, those tiny, barely perceptible moments, where the universe sighs and mutters, Oh, kid, you have no idea.

The next morning, my eyes wouldn’t open.

My skin was on fire. The itching wasn’t just on my skin. It felt like something burrowed under it, like ants had set up shop inside my veins. I clawed at my arms, my neck, my face. But touching it only made it worse. I stumbled to the bathroom mirror, tried to pry one eye open with my fingers. No luck. Swollen shut.

My dad took one look at me and sighed the long, slow sigh of a man who has raised a child for eight years and still wasn’t entirely sure how his own genes led to this outcome.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s get in the car.”

The doctor didn’t even ask what happened. He just prepped the cortisone shots. Even though I couldn’t see it, I had these shots before. I knew what was coming. The pain of that shot in my ass was bad. But compared to the constant fiery itch? It was a welcome distraction.

A few days later, when I could finally see again and I wasn’t contagious, Marcel came over. He didn’t gloat. He didn’t rub it in. Didn’t say, I told you so.

He simply smiled. The kind of smile that says, You did this to yourself, dude.

Marcel was a good guy. Kind. Patient. Clearly, I should’ve listened to him.

Turns out, certainty is a funny thing. The moment you think you’ve got it figured out, life rubs a handful of leaves all over your face.

You’d think an experience like that would have taught me something. Something about humility. About caution. About the dangers of absolute certainty.

Well, it didn’t.

That’s a lesson I seem to need to learn at least once every few years or so.

But I’ll tell you one thing.

I know exactly what poison oak looks like.

And maybe that’s the real trick of it all. Maybe knowledge isn’t what we think it is. Maybe wisdom isn’t about never making mistakes. Maybe it’s just the ability to look back on them, shake your head, and laugh.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Because I’m certain I won’t do something that stupid again.

Yeah… certain.

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