Next thing I knew, I was assigned to run a study group to define that term. So much for opening my mouth. But that's all right. Maybe I dug a hole and fell in it, but a set of bright and interested guys jumped in, too. So the bunch of us is now going to start defining and, I guess, report back to the full group.

Lucky for me, when I checked out of the education business back in '92, I didn't throw away everything. I did get rid of reams of notes and course outlines, plus most of the leaden documents I'd written as an administrator. But I saved some good stuff, most of it in my head.

The best thing saved I mentioned last week. I've always thought of it as Aristotle's tool box. It's the old boy's set of sure-fire techniques for coming to understand, well, almost anything. The best tool in the box, I think, is right on top. Maybe I can lead you right to its name, just by giving a couple of examples. (I could, back when I made an honest living in the classroom. That was before, as colleagues said, "Jim fell in with a bad crowd and became an administrator.") Let me try. Here's story one:

In the early morning, a dairy farmer is standing out by his road frontage, scowling and muttering. He's just discovered a mess. The previous afternoon a delivery truck had made too tight a turn leaving his place. It had caught the end of a dry-laid stone wall that dated back to his grandpa's time. What had been grandpa's wall is now just stones, scattered along twenty yards of length. No wonder the farmer is scowling. He's got an unforeseen, hard job ahead of him. As if he didn't have enough work!

OK, friends, here's the question: What's the difference between that wall and the now-scattered stones? Each of the stones, after all, is still intact. So what did the truck really destroy?

And here's story two. A squirrelly eight-year-old wants to see what's making his wind-up alarm clock run slow. (This story's old; I was the kid.) He takes off the keys for winding clock and alarm, and then pries he off the back. Whoa! A million parts, it looks like: little interlocking wheels with cogs turning one another, little brass half-moons swinging back and forth. And down low in the back, a brass-colored metal band coiled very tight.

He starts loosening tiny screws, taking out parts and laying them on the table. The clock keeps running till he loosens screws around the metal band. Suddenly it gives a SPROING! and flies loose from the works. All the little wheels stop. No sound now, no motion. The kid sits back in horror. He's killed the clock.

He fights back panic. Maybe he can fix it, take the clock all the way apart and then put it back right again. And so he keeps on feverishly removing parts until they're all laid out on the table. He looks at the spread of them awhile, biting his lip. Then he gives a racking sigh, sweeps all the parts into a cigar box. He carries it to the attic, shoves it behind the chimney.

His clockacide is never discovered. He confesses to no one. (Until now.) But forget the crime. Here's the second question: What was missing from that kid's head that doomed his project, and the clock, from the get-go?

Uh oh. All this was leading up to my telling you what Aristotle's four-letter word is. But you can see what's happened: I've run out of space.

So, puzzle over the two stories till next week, and I'll just give you a broad hint about that word. Its first letter is in the first third of the alphabet. Its third letter is in the last third. Its second and fourth are in the last third.

There, that ought to make it easy.

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. He can be found on the web at JimAtwell.com.