Human beings are odd in that we like to compete in contests we make up ourselves, usually for the highest, or, oppositely, the lowest scores. But since we at The Serious Mirth Society don’t have the slightest ability to do most of those kinds of things well, we just don’t take competition very, well, seriously.
But what we have been considering lately is the matter of distance—how far something can travel. And what we have been discussing are pumpkins—and catapults.
More than two thousand years ago, catapults were developed for assault in warfare—you know, besieging castles and the like. Thankfully, they’re now mostly considered obsolete. Unfortunately, that’s just because we just developed much deadlier weapons, arguably still trying to win contests we make up ourselves (a delicate topic for another day). We are happy to say that these days, catapults are mostly used for a better kind of competition—one testing engineering ingenuity, teamwork, and just plain fun. Since 1986, The World Championship Punkin Chunkin Association has hosted annual events to see just how far one can, for better or worse, chuck a pumpkin. (Important note: contrary to their origin, these catapults are not built to destroy—any pumpkin chucked must remain intact in order for a team to win.)
Why pumpkins? We don’t know. What would you choose?
Out of sheer curiosity, we recently posed this question to a bunch of six-year-olds. We told them about pumpkin catapults, and asked them, “What would you put in a catapult?”
We thought we were just having a laugh, but we quickly realized that we had inadvertently created a sort of Rorschach test, as we learned a lot about how these kids were wired. Here are a few of their responses:
- “Jelly beans” (so much fun)
- “Flaming boulders” (obviously a purist)
- “Myself” (an aspiring acrobat?)
- “Gifts all wrapped up and shiny” (look out, Santa)
The nature of their replies caught us off guard. Jelly beans, indeed. It wasn’t about competition—it was about fun. (Of note: the “flaming boulders” kid actually has a very kind heart—he’ll turn out just fine.)
Those kids started us thinking—what kind of world it would be if we used catapults for things like jelly beans and gifts? That would be a pretty good world. And then we started thinking along another axis of measurement—not just in distance, but in time. Because don’t we often do things in hopes of seeing how far we can throw them—into the future?
You could argue that a lot of our human contests are about making a mark in history, feeling significant, being remembered. We want our lives to be part of the future. We want to leave a legacy.
Legacy is an curious construct, something given—tangible or intangible—to future generations. Legacy shows us our story about who or what continues to be valued—both loved and despised. Legacy is something sent forward, and it has the potential to travel great distances in time—generations. Maybe legacy is a kind of tool—like a catapult—and it can be good or bad depending entirely on what’s being thrown forward, and why.
The kid who said she’d put herself in the catapult? She got us thinking—maybe that’s what we do. Maybe our catapults are our bodies and our lives—but know that we come pre-loaded with legacies. We’re full of our ancestors’s values—their genetics, their traditions, their cultures—and we need to be very aware of that. If we’re launching things forward, wouldn’t it be good for us to check our buckets to see what’s actually in there? What do you see? Are there jelly beans? Or flaming boulders? Maybe there are a lot of great things in there we are thrilled to send into the future. Shiny gifts. Undamaged pumpkins. But maybe too, there are things we could carefully remove, pour water on, and set aside. Maybe we could leave the flaming boulders behind.
It’s a delicate engineering feat, calibrating a catapult. Choosing a legacy. But it’s our job to decide. What will you put in your catapult?
The Serious Mirth Society 