It's a Problem

"Dad, tell me what you are doing. "

I'm fixing something, probably a computer glitch, and my daughter, who is blind, is wanting to know the details of what I m doing so that if and when this problem happens again she will be able to do the fix.

It is not a problem that she is blind and I am sighted. The problem is me. The problem is my ways of handling any task. Information comes to me in clumps which are primarily conceptual and not sensory (taste, touch, sight, hearing, smell). I call it mosaic thinking. She understands this because it is a strong component of her information input.

The difficulty comes as I translate this clump into my decision making processes which tend to be rational, not relational. My preference is to make binary decisions (right/wrong, black/white, smooth/rough, night/day, standard/non-standard). So when she asks me to tell her what I'm doing, she is asking me to interrupt the whole process going on in my head and interpret for her, which takes a whole different set of skills. Most importantly, to stop and deploy this different set of skills risks losing the thread of solving the problem at hand.

Seventy-five percent of the population prefers to receive their information with a sensory filter. Not only does this type of filter use the five senses, but it is present or past oriented so that it draws on similar "experiences" of information gathered in the past and how that information is similar to today's information.

I, on the other twenty-five percent side of the statistics, am intuitively oriented when it comes to information input. I see the forest, but have to really focus to see the trees that make up the forest. Plus, my information gathering takes a future cast. I am trying to see how this information will be useful in the future. So, I get clumpy info. This is good when you are trying to help others think out side the (their) box, but difficult to give a running translation of a problem solving activity.

Then, I have to feed this clumpy information into my rational information processing self. Fifty percent of the population are Thinking (rational) type and fifty percent are Feeling (relational) type. There is always a translation from information gathering to information processing. However, some translations go smoother. Sensory gathering is a better match with rational processing, but this doesn't guarantee a better result, just an easier translation. Intuitive information gathering is also a better match with relational processing, but, again, doesn't guarantee a better result.

So, this is the situation I often find myself in. My daughter wants a moment by moment commentary on what I am doing to her prized computer and I can't provide that commentary without interrupting the process that enables me to solve the problem.

Life is a grand adventure.

People Try to be Helpful

There is a story about a difference between Japanese and American culture and it goes like this: "In Japan a man is sitting at his desk in an office gazing out the window. People come by with various things they need to consult with him about, but do not enter his office or disturb him when they notice what he is doing.

"In America a man is sitting at his desk in his office and very obviously actively working on his computer. People come by with various things they need to consult with him about, but do not enter his office or disturb him when they notice what he is doing."

The story is told to illustrate a point: In Japan thought is respected and given space. In America activity is respected and given space. I don't remember the source of this story, but it illustrates well the American culture of action, action, action.

I'm an Introvert. Twenty-five percent of the population of the USA are classified as Introverts. The other 75% are, of course, Extraverts. Everything - business, education, religion, government, entertainment - is slanted to the majority, the Extraverts.

Here is the rub. People try to be helpful and get me, an Introvert, to become an Extravert. They can be quite evangelical about getting me to "convert" and give up my introverted ways so I can fit in (with them). These helpful ones don't realize that even if I could exchange my Introverted preferences for Extraverted ways, the effort involved in maintaining the appearance of Extraversion would so exhaust me that I would soon lapse back into Introversion to recharge.

"Lead, follow or get out of the way." Extraverts created this little piece of wisdom thinking it's a nice way to say "get out of my way, I'm doing important stuff here." It isn't wisdom. It is dismissive of 25% of the population.  Twenty-five percent is a large slice of the American pie. You'd think the potential marketing possibilities would make us valuable, but Extraverts are generally to busy to notice.

Introverts aren't  immature, self-centered, clueless, selfish, lazy or bored. We just require solitude or near solitude to recharge our batteries to enable us to interact, when necessary, with the overactive side of the population.

Well, I've interacted as much as I can stand for now. I'll probably have to take the day off tomorrow just to rest up.

Extraverts don't rest up. They branch out.

My Favorite Things

This should be in my profile, but it is too long.

My favorite authors:
    Theological  - Frederick Buechner, Phillip Yancy, Greg Boyd, Barry Callen, William Barclay and C.S. Lewis.
    Historical  - Daniel J. Boorstin
    Essay/Memoir - Annie Dillard, Tracy Kidder, Neil Postman
    Philosophy - Greg Boyd, William Hasker, David Basinger
   
My favorite music:
    The Eagles, The Carpenters, The Manhattan Transfer, Chicago, Journey, The Beatles, Glenn Miller, Bennie Goodman, Asleep at the Wheel, George Strait, Laura Jones, Eva Cassidy, James Taylor, Dan Fogelberg, Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir, Imperials (70s & 80s).
   
My favorite food:
    Hamburgers, Blue Bell Ice Cream, any thing with pasta, yogurt, Coconut cream pie, noodle soup, chef salad, Peter Pan creamy peanut butter, grape jelly, eggs any style, Mexican food, bar-b-que, green beans, corn, beans (pinto, black, navy), broccoli, cauliflower, banana peppers, Louisiana Hot Sauce, roast beef, fish, shrimp, lobster, crab, beef stew, potatoes, baked sweets, oranges, peaches, apples, lettuce, celery, tomatoes, Hostess Chocolate Cup Cakes, Bread (any kind)

My favorite quote:

    "The simple answer is: Life is complex." ---Carpenter Jackson, Late Stages of Conversation (unpublished essay)

My favorite time of day:
    Dawn and sunset

My favorite activity: Reading, discovering books at the used book store, eating (you'd think I'd be fat rather than just overweight)

Automobiles I'd like to own:
    1949 Mercury, 1951 Ford, 1958 Chevrolet Impala, 1958 Ford Thunderbird, 1959 Cadillac convertible

Television shows I watch:
    Burn Notice, Memphis Beat, NCIS, The Closer, White Collar, Law and Order, Law and Order Criminal Intent, CSI Las Vegas, CSI New York, Royal Pains, Leverage, American Pickers, Pawn Stars, Antiques Road Show, John Wayne movies (That's right Pilgrim), Warehouse 13, Eureka

Favorite Bible Version:
    New Revised Standard Version

Favorite Gospel:
    Mark (short, profound)

Favorite word:
    Hyperbole

My major weakness:
    Spelling

On the Wind

Yesterday my wife and I visited an airport in a small town close by. A coworker of mine had mentioned that gliders fly out of there. We went to take pictures.

My ride to be

When we arrived there were several gliders sitting out on the field and the main hanger was full of gliders inside their storage pod trailers. A few more were being assembled. We took some pictures and watched a tow plane launch a glider.

As we were walking across the grass, a man joined us and began a conversation, asking our names and if we had ever been out to the airport before. He invited us over to a covered pavilion where we could sit down. There were several men there, and several young teenage boys.

They let us watch and take pictures for a while in the shade of the pavilion. Several gliders landed and launched. Then Mario took an interest in us. Mario is a very engaging fellow in his 50s I would guess. He told us that the group was part of the Central Indiana Soaring Society.

It became clear as he spoke that I just might be able to take an "instructional" introductory flight for $99. I was beginning to get a little excited.

Two years ago my wife offered a hot air balloon ride for my birthday. I declined because I wanted a little more control over my destination and landing than a balloon offers. But, here was something that really appealed to me: strap on a glider and ride the wind currents.

We checked the finances and decided that we could afford the flight. A check was made out and I was on my way.

Mario gave me a preflight introduction on what to expect during the flight; the sounds of the glider, the movement and vibrations, and what my instructor pilot will be doing. Then I was ready to go.

I walk to the glider with my instructor (on right).

My instructor, Nyal (a man in his 70s), selected a glider that had not been flow that day, so he had to do a preflight inspection. There isn't as much to a glider as a powered aircraft, but what there is can get you killed if it is not right, so I was happy to observe the preflight inspection process. The glider was a Grob 103, a two seat, high-performance, fiberglass glider.

When preflight was over, I got in the front seat and put on the safety harness. Nyal gave me a short tutorial on the gauges and controls. Nyal then hopped in the rear seat and a golf cart pulled us out to the runway with the assistance of several people to guide the tail and hold up the wings.

Rolling down the runway, tow plane in front.

We were positioned behind the tow plane and hooked up. Hand signals were exchanged indicating everything was ready. The tow plane engine took on a more serious and powerful tone and we were heading down the runway. Soon, the noise of the landing gear against the tarmac ended and we were in flight. The tow plane took us up to 3500 feet and with a loud "thunk" Nyal released the tow rope and we banked to the right as the tow plane banked to the left with the yellow tow rope streaming out behind.

Nyal steered us into some thermals, giving just enough information about what he was doing and what the glider was doing.

After a while he let me take the controls and fly a while. The main glider controls are simple: a center stick that operates the elevator (push forward for nose down, pull back to bring the nose up) , and ailerons (move right to bank right and move left to bank left). Also, there are right and left pedals to operate the rudder. I think I did well, but it was first time delight that was important here.

View of the countryside.

The view was fantastic. The horizon was a mostly invisible due to haze, but the immediate area was clear with moderate scattered clouds. Someone remarked before we got into the glider that the only way to have a better view was to fly in an F-16 fighter. I believe it.

We landed on the grass strip parallel to the paved runway. Thirty-three minutes from start of tow to final stop at the end of the runway.

I think I'll do it again.

A Boy's Memory

The boy remembers it this way:

The notice came on a page of purple letters, fresh off the school mimeograph machine, and he took it to his parents. Baseball teams were organizing!

Dad took him to a store to purchase the equipment needed: A glove, bat, ball and hat. A glove was selected; leather, a comfortable fit for the size of his hand. A wood bat, long, solid with a smooth grip, was found. A fine new ball of regulation size was placed in the basket. Finally, a ball cap in school colors was fitted. Everything he needed was purchased.

The boy doesn't remember playing catch with his dad. Probably did, but not much. There was no batting practice with the boys on his block. The only other boy on his block was two years older and not a baseball player. He wasn't allowed to play with him anyway.

The boy devoted much time in forming the pocket of glove to be the proper shape for catching the ball. Hour after hour he would hurl the ball into the glove, the ball making a satisfying pop against the leather. Slowly the pocket formed into the dimensions of the ball. He even wrote his name in ink on the thumb of the glove below the endorsed signature of some big league player. For good measure, he wrote his name on the strap next to the brand name.

His bat only needed one modification. He put a big, red "B" on the bottom of the knob and then drilled small holes around the "B" in case the ink should rub off with much use. He thought it looked neat. The boy practices holding the bat like he heard Mickey Mantle holds a bat, with his little finger up over the knob.

He wrote his name in ink on the ball and rubbed it in hands with dirt to take the "new ball" luster off it. Then pop, pop, pop into the glove. He practiced putting his fingers on the threads to give a good spin to the ball. He was getting ready.

Last was the baseball cap. Forming the bill was necessary to look like one of the guys. A crease was needed in the center of the bill, starting at the front edge and extending to the back where the bill joins the cap. Next, half way, on either side of the center crease, another crease was formed. These creases formed a semi-curved bill to help block the sun from his eyes. Mostly it looked cool. It was the expected look to have.

All the rituals the boy knew of had been observed. He was ready to play ball.

The first practice arrived. The boy went. Sat on the bench. Stood up and walked around the bench. Sat on the bench some more. Sat. Sat. Sat.

While waiting, the boy noticed the other player's gloves. They were big. Their gloves looked man sized. His glove looked like a child's next to these huge flaps of leather. And the other boys had shoes with spikes sticking out from the soles.

Most surprising, these boys seemed to know what to do out there on the field. It had not occured to him that they would not be beginners too.

After a long while, the coach said, "why don't you go out in right field?" Wow, right field. So, he went and stood in right field. And stood, and stood, and stood. Nothing came his way.

Finally, the coach took the bat and hit a few out his direction. He missed or dropped them all. And throwing. Were should he throw the ball? Not a clue. Other boys shouting, "here, there, to him, no, to me, not there," all in one loud confusing chatter.

At last, batting practice came for his side. The boy was last to bat. Swing, "Strike One!" Swing, "Strike Two!" He decides to let one go by. "Strike three!" The coach calls to the pitcher, "throw some more, slower and down the center, give the boy a chance."

After a few more strikes, the boy dribbles one into short right field and runs for first base where he is thrown out. Practice is over.

The boy doesn't remember going to another practice. He never received the game shirt. Baseball was over for him.

The boy concluded much later that it takes more than rituals to make you one of the players.

Into the Past

I know some people who enjoy going to their high school reunions. Extraverts mostly. They go to their reunions for many reasons, but I cannot get myself worked up to go. I lived through those years and there was some fun stuff along with some bad stuff. I'm a different person now. I've moved on. The things that we held in common back then no longer bind us.

One of the guys I hung out with has a false memory of an event a few years after high school. He remembers making signs for the presidential campaign of Robert Kennedy and that I was part of that group of people. Actually, I was far away, going to school in Houston at that time.

Time and distance can play tricks with memory. Events and people become confused after a while and we compensate by inventing fictions to fill in the blanks and help us make sense of it all. The older we become, the more fragile the memory, the more likely we will insert a fictional assist.

The truth is. I am horrified by some of my teenage behavior. I've changed, hopefully for the better, but I have no desire to open up the book of the past and trigger a nasty memory for one of my former classmates or for me. Spending a weekend apologizing for being stupid and reckless behavior is not my idea of fun. I wish all my former classmates well, but I'm not going there.