(JP and I, around 1963)
Besides being a nasty slam against those who slog their hearts out trying to instill some degree of knowledge into those who are young and dumb and full of... well, never mind... it's an axiom deserving of a bit of qualification. When I was at Mather AFB, doing base tours for people, one of my contacts in the training squadron was an officer who insisted that one of his very best navigator instructors was a guy who barely scraped through navigator training himself. Because this person had failed initially to grasp most concepts, had made a hash out of every first challenge, been boggled at every twist and turn of navigator training--- but had eventually persevered made him preternaturally sensitive in knowing whenever one of his students had lost his or her grip and fallen off the turnip truck entirely. Since he had himself lost grip at that point, he knew exactly when to slow down, and lend a hand. Being good at something, being a flaming genius at it, insisted my contact, with considerable heat, did not in fact make you a good teacher of those skills. You would be impatient and exasperated at the slowness of pupils who could not make the conceptual leap with the speed and grace that you had performed yourself."It's perfectly clear... why can't you see that?! Are you stupid or something?!!"
I could have told him that. After all, my brother JP and I survived Dad trying to teach us to tell time.I don't know why Dad fixed on that particular skill. Perhaps the success of snake proofing, and the way we eagerly absorbed everything about his nature walks led him to overconfidence. (He still does the best nature walks of anyone I know. When I did a tour in Greenland I went everywhere asking, "What is that? How does it grow? What made those tracks? How does it survive? What about the birds?" No one could tell me. Dad wasn't there.) For some reason, he decided it was a Useful Skill, and it was his duty to pass it to JP and I, about the time when both of us were in grade school. Our younger sister Pippy was spared these exercises, on account of her relative youth, frail health, and tendency to throw up, when stressed. He even got this awful cardboard mechanical teaching aid, a heavy pasteboard clock face with plastic hands that were geared so you could move the minute hand, and it would incrementally move the hour hand.
I don't know what happened to it, we probably ditched the horrible object in the move from the house we lost to the highway to the house on the hill. In my mind, it is right up there with thumbscrews and the Iron Maiden. It was an Object of Torture. Given a choice I would have burned the damned thing and danced around the bonfire sky clad.
It would be another uneventful evening in "Chez Hayes", when Dad would decide that a lesson was in order. He would produce the clock training aide, summon JP and I to attend, while Mom would retreat to the kitchen and grimly pour herself another glass of Chablis."OK, what time is this?" (Clock hands set, little hand at eight, large hand at 20 minutes past)"Mmmm... Eight twenty..." I would make an educated guess, and JP and I would breath a sigh of relief, although we would know the inevitable outcome of this session. It was only delayed, not averted.Dad moved the hands to half past eight. Another intellectual hurdle."What time is it now?""Eight... sixty." JP looked at the horrid little training aid, and made a stab at logical progression."No! What time is it?!!"
We were doomed. Exasperation was building up to the full fury of the explosion."Eight... eight...""Eight what? It's right in front of you, what are the hands pointing to?""Eight... and six..." I would start bravely, voice quavering."How many minutes does that mean?"
I would look at the horrible cardboard clock face, and my mind would be a total blank. Terror at the inevitable explosion was the only thing in my mind. Dad's baffled fury at our almost total incomprehension of the concept was a constant to be relied upon. Our childhood was otherwise so calm and regular, our parents (and grandparents) constantly gave assurance that we were of worth, protected and sheltered and cherished in every way; this was the only fly in the ointment, as it were. As an adult, I had friends who survived most sorts of deprivation and emotional abuse, they would have absorbed this sort of scene and forgotten about by lunch--- having a parent who cared so deeply and paid this amount of attention was a God-given gift, looked at it from their perspective. From my perspective, every rational thought was driven instantly from my mind: instant intellectual paralysis was achieved. It was inevitable: we would give the fourth or fifth wrong answer, and Dad would explode.
"Eight... eight..." I would fish desperately for inspiration, for a miracle, for knowledge, for an angel to swoop down and whisper the answer into my ear."Eight what?" Dad's hand smacked down on the chair arm, " Can't you see it, it's right in front of you?!!"JP and I would dissolve into tears. End of exercise, end of the Inquisition until next time. The end result of the whole thing was that I didn't really learn to tell time until I finished grade school and went on to Mt. Gleason Junior High, with classes ending on a scheduled time, with a short "passing period" before the next class. Then it all fell together, and made logical sense. The mystery was unveiled, the clock face no longer an instrument of torture: I could tell time.
I did swear the most solemn vow that Dad would not be the one to teach me to drive a car. Mom says he tried, but only once and I was in tears before we even got out of the driveway. I don't think that was me, it must have been Pippy--- wild horses would not have dragged me behind the wheel of a car with Dad being the instructor. I had a regular job by that time; I hired a professional instructor. She had nerves of steel, and a calm, gentle demeanor, and I only needed eight hours of lessons.
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Comments
(style)
My Father was well known for witty responses and I expected one on this occasion. I was quite suprised when he simply let it pass. Later I asked him about it and his reply was Shakespeare said that "brevity is the sole of wit" and I would have had to say far too much for that gentleman to understand.
My upbringing was a series of episodes like that for which I am eternally grateful. In retrospect growing up under his tutorial system was a bit "Zenish".
His reply to my stating that I did not want to continue my education beyond High School when I was in my Senior year was "an education isn't important unless you dont have one" It took a few years for that one to sink in and where he got it I don't know but I am probably leaving someone uncredited it's paraphrased so please forgive me.
I could go on and on but there isn't much point. there is a little voice in the back of my head saying I have said far too much already.