As The Wheel Turns -Part 2

   Over the years I’ve absorbed a fair bit of knowledge about what goes on under the hood of my car. But I keep it to myself…unless I happen to be alone on a long trip and have an emergency requiring the aid of an unknown mechanic. In that case, I will do the guy thing and comment on what I suspect the problem is.

   Example: “You know, mister, I think it is the alternator. Could you take a look at that for me? I left my overalls at home and don’t want to ruin this dress.”

   It keeps expenses to a minimum.

   Because I’m small, I probably could not do anything about fixing my car anyway. Fortunately, I have had probably the longest unbroken streak of good luck with cars in the history of womankind. The only time my car will get a flat tire is when there are men either in the car or near-by.

   I always let them change the tire for me. It’s good for their self-image. Besides, men still need dragons to slay and changing tires for helpless women is still one of those dragons.

   When I have a flat tire, I step out of the car, walk around to the punctured tire and look helpless. Within 30 seconds, a man will pull up and ask if he can change it for me. Of course, I live in the far west, where men are still gallant about such things. I’m not sure how women manage in places like New York City.

   If my car breaks down, it will do so in front of a service station or a used car lot. Or when Tim is driving it. I recently drove a newly purchased car across four states and back. True to form for one of my cars, it waited until I pulled into my home driveway before blowing two radiator hoses.

   My mechanic just shook his head and said, “Sheri, you must have a flock of angels watching over you!” (And I do, of course.)

   That’s why it came as such a shock when I suddenly found myself stranded twenty miles from town in a canyon, in a car that refused to finish the course.

   As it coasted to a stop along the shoulder of the road, I thought, “I am definitely not dress for this event!”

   It was a hot day and, unfortunately, I was dressed for the weather. The outfit would undoubtedly stop a truck driver but would stifle any sympathy from the other women on the road. This was not good.

   The dashboards lights were flashing “check engine-check oil-check battery.” The temperature gauge was moderate.

   I rested my forehead against the steering wheel in frustration and more than a little unease, then sighed and got out of the car. I lifted the hood. No steam. No smoke. Good! Nothing earth-shattering.

   “Hm. It’s probably the fuel pump,” I thought. But knowing the problem wasn’t comforting. Not fifteen miles from help out in the middle of Montana. I had bigger problems to solve, like how to get into town safely.

   Just then a huge, green fuel truck screeched to a halt on the road in front of me and began backing up.

   Uh-oh. A strange man! Visions of “America’s Most Wanted” flashed through my mind as I waited apprehensively for him to appear.

   A large, grizzled man dressed in a company uniform approached around the end of the truck. He tucked in his shirt, shifted his wad of chewing tobacco, spat, and asked, “You got a problem there, lady?”

   I sighed and nodded. “I think so.”

   He came over, looked at the engine and said just what I’d thought. “Hm. No smoke. No steam.” He fiddled with a few lines and said, “You wanna try starting ‘er up again?”

   “Okay,” I said meekly, walking back to the car door. The engine started. Yes! Then it died again. No!

   “I don’t think it’s going to make it,” I sighed, getting out of the car and walking back to the truck driver. “Hm,” I muttered, staring at the engine.

   So did he.

   “Would you happen to have a cell phone?” I asked.

   “I do,” he nodded. Looking around at the canyon walls towering over the road he added, “Well, maybe.”

   No dice. The phone was useless.

   “You know where Bob’s Market is?” I asked cautiously.

   “Sure do.”

   “Could I get a lift there?”
   A few minutes later, bouncing along on the front seat of the truck, we cleared the canyon. I immediately called Tim at work. I was expecting him to say something like, “Honey! Are you okay? I’ll be right there!”

   What came out was, “So why did you call me? Why didn’t you stay with the car and call Auto Club?”

   Why, after all these years, does Tim persist in thinking I can take care of myself?

   The truck driver thoughtfully deposited me right outside the door of Bob’s Market. I thanked him for the ride and climbed down from the cab, palms sweating from the nervousness of my narrow escape from this stranger. As I turned to wave good-by, I saw the man lift the cell phone to his hear. Through the open window of the cab I heard him say, “Hello, Dear. Just thought I’d call you and let you know I’m okay…”

(Rule of Three: In the story, I described myself as small and helpless when it comes to cars. And I am. So the last line was the change of perspective, and that creates humor. Another way to write humor is to tell what you are thinking when it goes against what is usually said aloud – The things we think but never say.)

As The Wheel Turns (Part 2)

   Over the years I’ve absorbed a fair bit of knowledge about what goes on under the hood of my car. But I keep it to myself…unless I happen to be alone on a long trip and have an emergency requiring the aid of an unknown mechanic. In that case, I will do the guy thing and comment on what I suspect the problem is.

   Example: “You know, mister, I think it is the alternator. Could you take a look at that for me? I left my overalls at home and don’t want to ruin this dress.”

   It keeps expenses to a minimum.

   Because I’m small, I probably could not do anything about fixing my car anyway. Fortunately, I have had probably the longest unbroken streak of good luck with cars in the history of womankind. The only time my car will get a flat tire is when there are men either in the car or near-by.

   I always let them change the tire for me. It’s good for their self-image. Besides, men still need dragons to slay and changing tires for helpless women is still one of those dragons.

   When I have a flat tire, I step out of the car, walk around to the punctured tire and look helpless. Within 30 seconds, a man will pull up and ask if he can change it for me. Of course, I live in the far west, where men are still gallant about such things. I’m not sure how women manage in places like New York City.

   If my car breaks down, it will do so in front of a service station or a used car lot. Or when Tim is driving it. I recently drove a newly purchased car across four states and back. True to form for one of my cars, it waited until I pulled into my home driveway before blowing two radiator hoses.

   My mechanic just shook his head and said, “Sheri, you must have a flock of angels watching over you!” (And I do, of course.)

   That’s why it came as such a shock when I suddenly found myself stranded twenty miles from town in a canyon, in a car that refused to finish the course.

   As it coasted to a stop along the shoulder of the road, I thought, “I am definitely not dress for this event!”

   It was a hot day and, unfortunately, I was dressed for the weather. The outfit would undoubtedly stop a truck driver but would stifle any sympathy from the other women on the road. This was not good.

   The dashboards lights were flashing “check engine-check oil-check battery.” The temperature gauge was moderate.

   I rested my forehead against the steering wheel in frustration and more than a little unease, then sighed and got out of the car. I lifted the hood. No steam. No smoke. Good! Nothing earth-shattering.

   “Hm. It’s probably the fuel pump,” I thought. But knowing the problem wasn’t comforting. Not fifteen miles from help out in the middle of Montana. I had bigger problems to solve, like how to get into town safely.

   Just then a huge, green fuel truck screeched to a halt on the road in front of me and began backing up.

   Uh-oh. A strange man! Visions of “America’s Most Wanted” flashed through my mind as I waited apprehensively for him to appear.

   A large, grizzled man dressed in a company uniform approached around the end of the truck. He tucked in his shirt, shifted his wad of chewing tobacco, spat, and asked, “You got a problem there, lady?”

   I sighed and nodded. “I think so.”

   He came over, looked at the engine and said just what I’d thought. “Hm. No smoke. No steam.” He fiddled with a few lines and said, “You wanna try starting ‘er up again?”

   “Okay,” I said meekly, walking back to the car door. The engine started. Yes! Then it died again. No!

   “I don’t think it’s going to make it,” I sighed, getting out of the car and walking back to the truck driver. “Hm,” I muttered, staring at the engine.

   So did he.

   “Would you happen to have a cell phone?” I asked.

   “I do,” he nodded. Looking around at the canyon walls towering over the road he added, “Well, maybe.”

   No dice. The phone was useless.

   “You know where Bob’s Market is?” I asked cautiously.

   “Sure do.”

   “Could I get a lift there?”
   A few minutes later, bouncing along on the front seat of the truck, we cleared the canyon. I immediately called Tim at work. I was expecting him to say something like, “Honey! Are you okay? I’ll be right there!”

   What came out was, “So why did you call me? Why didn’t you stay with the car and call Auto Club?”

   Why, after all these years, does Tim persist in thinking I can take care of myself?

   The truck driver thoughtfully deposited me right outside the door of Bob’s Market. I thanked him for the ride and climbed down from the cab, palms sweating from the nervousness of my narrow escape from this stranger. As I turned to wave good-by, I saw the man lift the cell phone to his hear. Through the open window of the cab I heard him say, “Hello, Dear. Just thought I’d call you and let you know I’m okay…”

(Rule of Three: In the story, I described myself as small and helpless when it comes to cars. And I am. So the last line was the change of perspective, and that creates humor. Another way to write humor is to tell what you are thinking when it goes against what is usually said aloud – The things we think but never say.)

As The Wheel Turns, Part 1

   “Hey, Mom,” my teenage daughter, Christy, called from her bedroom doorway. “What’s one thing you’ve learned the hard way in life?”

   Without looking up from my book, I quipped, “Never let your father fix my car!”

   A chuckle sounded behind the Sunday paper. Two twinkling sea-green eyes glared at me in mock ferocity as Tim lowered the paper.

   “Sheri, if you don’t watch out, I won’t change your oil this afternoon!”

   “Thanks for warning me what you are planning,” I fired back.

   Christy came into the living room. “My English teacher wants me to interview you and Dad, then write an essay on what you tell me. Did you really want me to answer the question that way?”

   Of course,” I said. It seemed the safest answer to her question about things I’ve learned the hard way. It was absolutely true, too.

   Tim is good at a great many things, but cars aren’t his specialty, even though he thinks they are.

   Around midnight a few nights ago, we were fast asleep. Suddenly, a car’s horn began blaring. I sat up in bed. “Tim, is that one of your cars?”

   “Humph?” he mumbled. “No. It’s the neighbor’s car.” He turned over and pulled his pillow over his head.

   “Tim, the neighbors live a half mile away. That can’t be the neighbor’s car. My car would never do such a thing, so it must be one of yours. You’d better go check.”

   Mumbling crossly, Tim dragged himself out of bed and stalked outside. I slithered out of bed and peeked through the window to watch.

   Tim opened the back door. A blast of wind slammed it against the wall. Sticking his head outside, he glared at the blaring culprit. Sure enough, it was his old station wagon. Tim limped toward it across the sharp gravel.

   “Ow! Ow!” he said, not being a swearing sort of man.

   Just as he reached the car, the blaring horn stopped.

   “Pull the plug, Tim. Pull the plug!” I whispered to myself.

  Tim halted uncertainly, shrugged, and headed back to the house and plopped back into bed.

   “Why didn’t you pull the plug on that horn?” I asked.

   “It stopped.”

   I lay back on my pillow and waited.

   Sure enough, the wind picked up, roaring through the pine trees. Lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled.

   That’s when the car’s horn began blasting again.

   I knew it! That car had deliberately waited until all the elements were on edge before blaring again. (Don’t ever try to convince me cars and computers aren’t influenced by invisible forces. Our definitely are demonic. Particularly Tim’s.)

   “Aaaack!” Tim shouted, throwing the covers back and racing back out to the car. Sharp stones poked his feet again. Wind blew his hair straight up. He lifted the car’s hood and jerked the wire connected to the horn. Silence. That’s when the rain hit.

   Tim dropped the hood into place and dashed back into the house.

   I smiled into my pillow as Tim changed into dry pajamas and climbed back into bed. It seems to be his destiny to do battle with his vehicles.

   On the other hand, I take my cars to real mechanics, and my cars behave nicely.

   I’ve picked up a lot of car knowledge from the men around me. It’s impossible not to. Every time something goes wrong with my car … and there’s always a man in the car at the time … all the male creatures in the vehicle, and maybe a few driving by on the road, will give their opinion about what’s wrong.

   “It’s probably the starter.”

   “Well, it might be a bad alternator.”

   “Or the spark plugs.”

   I’m convinced  men do this to intimidate women. They never say anything useful.

   So I sit there in panic trying to get the thing going. I’ve learned to ask the men to “get out and push and see if we can push-start it.” Then, when all the male creatures are outside the car, I can think clearly again. I check everything, and quietly do something like put the car in the right gear, turn the key, and voila, it starts.

   Gratified that they could be helpful in push-starting my car, the men smile and walk away. Except for my man, who gets back into the car and suggests I get the vehicle tuned up.

   I thank him for his help and don’t tell him what the real problem was. I feel too stupid. Besides, if he couldn’t have thought of checking the gear in the first place, he doesn’t deserve to know the truth.

   I now drive an automatic. No more gear issues for me!

(Tune in next time for As The Wheel

Turns, Part 2.)

Humor is one of the multisensory tools you might want to add to your teaching or speaking  work belt. Using humor to illustrate usually involves exaggeration. In this case, however, I told it like it really happened. (Of course, I usually see things from a funny point of view.) When speaking or writing, using humor to illustrate a point will help your audience relax and enjoy the story, as well as help people remember your what you said to them and, for some, it will help them remember your point … as long as your point relates to the humorous story you just told.

   I would use a story like this in writing a piece about evaluating who you choose to speak into your life. Just as I would not take my car to someone without good mechanical skills, I would not take advice from someone without a good understanding of God and his ways.

   Of course, this is a long lead-in to writing on the subject, unless one is writing a book. But it illustrates humor.

   To write humor, one must tap into the Rule of Three: To make a person laugh, get them to start thinking of something in a certain way, then finish your illustration by switching to a different way of viewing the subject. Usually, that takes 3 leads going in one direction, then a 4th going a different direction.

   In this story, I used only one serious lead, followed by a comic response.

Lead: “What’s one thing you learned the hard way?” (Implies a serious topic.)

Change direction: “Never let your father fix my car.” (Comic response.)

   I will illustrate this Rule of Three again in my next blog post.

Convincing others

BLOG 2

Convincing Others

Have you ever tried to convince someone to respect your objections to an activity? I have. In marriage especially, I have frequently been outmaneuvered by my husband’s logic. Yes, he always has very good ideas about what he wants and why he wants it. But recently I made a discovery. If I apply some of my multi-sensory learning techniques, I have more success in being understood and my ideas accepted.

In my marriage, I have learned to avoid using emotions to get my husband to change his mind about something he wants me/us to do. … something I may disagree with. Tears, anger, and speaking loudly are not good for relationships. Using emotions can get you what you want in the moment, but they will turn others off and harm relationships.

I used to simply say, in a calm manner, “I don’t want to do this activity. I’m too tired—or too busy—or not interested. If he was content to do the activity alone, or if it wasn’t too important to him, everything was fine. But sometimes he wants me to go places with him or attempt a project which I think is a bad idea. When I simply resist, he comes to me with logical reasons why I should do what he wants. A simple statement of what I think or want is not enough.

Recently, I chose to use a multisensory communication tool. Instead of simply saying I didn’t want to do something, I used IMAGINATION. I painted a mental picture of what I saw happening if we did what he asked. Result? He stopped pushing his idea and respected my view. He needed to hear why I didn’t want to pursue a certain course of action, and it needed to be more than an excuse. He needed to see the whole picture the way I saw it.

Because he saw my point of view, we were able to reach a satisfactory compromise.

When you find yourself facing a conflict, think through your objections. Write them down. Then paint a picture for the person with whom you are communicating. This will help smooth the way to better understanding and maybe help you find a satisfactory compromise.

A  young woman I know was able to convince her employer to take a different approach to one of his goals by painting a picture of the reality she saw in one of the locations he was trying to reach. He was relying on charts and statistics to reach the people. She was focused on the people’s cultural response to his proposed actions. It changed how he approached the situation.

Whatever conflict you face, consider using imagination to help others understand your point of view. Then allow the other person to consider what you have said, and do not try to push them. Let them think about what you have said and evaluate it. This is a respectful way to address differences, and it often works well.