As a child， I grew up on a Missouri farm； and one day， whilehelping my mother pit cherries， I began to cry. My mother said：
“Dale， what in the world are you crying about？” I blubbered：“I’mafraid I am going to be buried alive！”
I was full of worries in those days. When thunderstorms came，I worried for fear I would be killed by lightning. When hardtimes came， I worried for fear we wouldn’t have enough to eat.
I worried for fear I would go to hell when I died. I was terrifiedfor fear an older boy， Sam White， would cut off my big ears—ashe threatened to do. I worried for fear girls would laugh at me ifI tipped my hat to them. I worried for fear no girl would ever bewilling to marry me. I worried about what I would say to my wifeimmediately after we were married. I imagined that we would bemarried in some country church， and then get in a surrey withfringe on the top and ride back to the farm... but how would I beable to keep the conversation going on that ride back to the farm？
How？ How？ I pondered over that earth-shaking problem formany an hour as I walked behind the plough.
As the years went by， I gradually discovered that ninety-ninepercent of the things I worried about never happened.
For example， as I have already said， I was once terrified oflightning； but I now know that the chances of my being killed bylightning in any one year are， according to the National SafetyCouncil， only one in three hundred and fifty thousand.
My fear of being buried alive was even more absurd： I don’timagine that one person in ten million is buried alive； yet I oncecried for fear of it.
One person out of every eight dies of cancer. If I had wantedsomething to worry about， I should have worried about cancer—instead of being killed by lightning or being buried alive.
To be sure， I have been talking about the worries of youth andadolescence. But many of our adult worries are almost as absurd.
You and I could probably eliminate nine-tenths of our worriesright now if we would cease our fretting long enough to discoverwhether， by the law of averages， there was any real justificationfor our worries.
The most famous insurance company on earth—Lloyd’s ofLondon—has made countless millions out of the tendency ofeverybody to worry about things that rarely happen. Lloyd’s ofLondon bets people that the disasters they are worrying aboutwill never occur. However， they don’t call it betting. They call itinsurance. But it is really betting based on the law of averages.
This great insurance firm has been going strong for two hundredyears； and unless human nature changes， it will still be goingstrong fifty centuries from now by insuring shoes and ships andsealing-wax against disasters that， by the law of average， don’thappen nearly so often as people imagine.
If we examine the law of averages， we will often be astoundedat the facts we uncover. For example， if I knew that during thenext five years I would have to fight in a battle as bloody as theBattle of Gettysburg， I would be terrified. I would take out allthe life insurance I could get. I would draw up my will and setall my earthly affairs in order. I would say： “I’ll probably neverlive through that battle， so I had better make the most of the few years I have left.” Yet the facts are that， according to the law ofaverages， it is just as dangerous， just as fatal， to try to live fromage fifty to age fifty-five in peacetime as it was to fight in theBattle of Gettysburg. What I am trying to say is this： in times ofpeace， just as many people die per thousand between the ages offifty and fifty-five as were killed per thousand among the 163，000soldiers who fought at Gettysburg.
I wrote several chapters of this book at James Simpson’s Num-Ti-Gah Lodge， on the shore of Bow Lake in the Canadian Rockies.
While stopping there one summer， I met Mr. and Mrs. HerbertH. Salinger， of 2298 Pacific Avenue， San Francisco. Mrs. Salinger，a poised， serene woman， gave me the impression that she hadnever worried. One evening in front of the roaring fireplace， Iasked her if she had ever been troubled by worry. “Troubled byit？” she said.
“My life was almost ruined by it. Before I learned to conquerworry， I lived through eleven years of self-made hell. I wasirritable and hottempered. I lived under terrific tension. I wouldtake the bus every week from my home in San Mateo to shop inSan Francisco. But even while shopping， I worried myself into adither： maybe I had left the electric iron connected on the ironingboard. Maybe the house had caught fire. Maybe the maid hadrun off and left the children. Maybe they had been out on theirbicycles and been killed by a car. In the midst of my shopping，I would often worry myself into a cold perspiration and rushout and take the bus home to see if everything was all right. Nowonder my first marriage ended in disaster.
“My second husband is a lawyer—a quiet， analytical man whonever worries about anything. When I became tense and anxious，he would say to me： ‘relax. Let’s think this out.... What are you really worrying about？ Let’s examine the law of averages and seewhether or not it is likely to happen.’
“For example， I remember the time we were driving fromAlbuquerque， New Mexico， to the Carlsbad Caverns—driving on adirt road—when we were caught in a terrible rainstorm. “The carwas slithering and sliding. We couldn’t control it. I was positivewe would slide off into one of the ditches that flanked the road；but my husband kept repeating to me： ‘I am driving very slowly.
Nothing serious is likely to happen. Even if the car does slide intothe ditch， by the law of averages， we won’t be hurt.’ His calmnessand confidence quieted me.
