Umm… yeah, me worry. Me worry about paying bills, the cost of living, global warming, cleaning the house, walking the dog, the price of gas, getting old and blah, blah, blah. 

Of course, one would have to be of a certain age to have any clue where the expression “What, me worry?” comes from, but I’m betting that at least a few of you do. Rather than simply giving in to the endless parade of neuroses plaguing me, I decided to splash some cold water on my old broke face and cross a few worries off my list.

After dusting the living room and walking the dog, I winced while filling the gas tank and drove off in search of the fountain of youth, aka the Liberty Central School Winter Festival because, well—just because. The poster promised a myriad of vendors, activities, crafts and games, but honestly, I was simply looking for a diversion, something that would occupy my frazzled brain and provide some respite from the everyday problems that keep me awake at night. 

Upon arrival, I was stunned to see swarms of people flooding the school’s gymnasium. And amid the cacophony of kids reveling in karaoke, scads of carnival games, community organization booths and assorted activities, I found what I was looking for: happy, healthy fun-loving kids who unknowingly embrace the what-me-worry philosophy that I was seeking.

Naturally, I began to worry. I worried about how I would navigate the halls with a dog strapped to my old hip. I worried about getting permission from parents to photograph the students. I even worried about finding the promised hot chocolate and snacks, but all for naught, since the joint was jumpin’ and folks seemed happy to see me, although I suspect it was the dog in a sack causing them all to smile when seeing us approach.

As I surveyed the scene, I smiled as well. Although there was fun being had wherever I looked, I couldn’t help but notice that education was providing the building blocks of the event. Sullivan 180 sponsored a booth that showcased a contraption created by a company called Rock the Bike; when the bike was put in motion by a willing participant, it becomes a stationary exercise bike that makes smoothies via a blender attached to the pedals. Uh huh. 

Bemused, I approached educator Tameka Terry, who oversees the Makers Space program for the elementary school. I asked Mrs. Terry to explain how the thing worked and, with an assist from sixth-grader Lilly, who volunteered to demonstrate, I walked away with a yummy alternative to the cupcake I was craving but was nowhere to be found.

I stopped and spoke with a couple of cops who were on hand to chat with the students, and we talked about the police department programs presented in the school that (IMHO) are designed to demystify authority, relying instead on education (there’s that word again), information and a genuine connection between kids and adults. 

The cops were cool, but I turned down the invitation to try on a flak jacket, mostly because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to pick it up, much less slip it over my head. Composed of overlapping plates of steel and bonded fiberglass designed to protect the wearer from shell fragments and shrapnel, those suckers are heavy, and I was worried. Go figure.

Ben Wiessmann was in the house, representing A Single Bite, the “neighbors-feeding-neighbors” program that Sims and Kirsten Foster have created using their hospitality background to help effect a change in health through nutrition in our schools. 

As I strolled the halls, I snapped pics of kids accepting challenges to show off their skills of strength, hand-eye coordination or level of expertise at singing their favorite hit songs, none of which I recognized because, well—I’m old.

Of course That Dog Named Gidget was a hit wherever we walked, and she even made a canine friend named Lucy along the way. 

Speaking of walking, there’s an app to keep track of that and somehow I managed to take close to four thousand steps at the festival. Looks like I learned a thing or two, too. Maybe I should take a page from the kids’ playbook and adopt a “What, me worry?” attitude at Camp Fox. I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Unless there’s a flak jacket involved. 

Ask the Google: Q—Where did the phrase “What, me worry” originate?

 A—It was in 1950s dentistry advertisements that we first learned of “What? Me worry?” A cartoonist named Harvey Kurtzman spotted the ads and pitched using it as Mad Magazine cover boy Alfred E. Neuman’s catch phrase, saying that “it was a face that didn’t have a care in the world.”