Encouragement

I have long been a believer in encouragement because I have such an adamant hate for discouragement, especially the kind that comes from outside sources. Yuck. Give me good a old compliment any day and trust me too fill in the gaps on my own. At least that is my theory for dealing with other people. I'm talking about sharing information or teaching or motivating others to keep trying.

I break and train horses as and advocation and the first rule of thumb for teaching anything to a horse is to reward the slightest change and the smallest try. So that is the foundation I use when working with horses and people. By people I mean sixth grade basketball players although I think it works for everyone. If I'm trying to teach a horse to take a step backwards I put some pressure on the bit in his mouth by pulling on the reins. As soon as he even thinks about taking a step back I release the pressure on the reins. I build on this foundation.

It is the same with teaching kids to play basketball. I help coach my boys team each fall and at the beginning of the season some of them are so lousy they can hardly heave the ball within orbiting distance of the hoop let alone put it in the hole. So I often encourage some of them with a heart felt attaboy in hopes that they will at least keep trying until they can get the ball near enough to the rim that it may go through the hoop. But I try to be honest and not shine them on. I try to encourage them so maybe they will go home and practice and get to the point where I can say "Hey, nice one, you made it (or touched the rim) now try this technique" I show him the technique such as hand position on the ball or bending the legs more. Sure enough the next shot, in most cases, hits me upside the head. But the point is, if he is encouraged in such a way as to keep his confidence up he may at least practice on his own enough to where a foundation can be laid upon which to build.

Another case in point. One Danny Dunne. I met him on a on line humor writers group. He is niether a sixth grader nor a basketball player but his story will serve to illistrate how encouragement works. When he first started posting his missives to the group I feared for his life because he seemed to have a preoccupation with his own death. He posted hilarious stories such as, My Life as a Dead Person and My Obituary. They were not necessarily the lighthearted, humorous stories normally produced by the group. He'd scratch out a few morbid words in random sentences that flowed painstakingly uphill until coming to a merciful ending by which time we first readers were contemplating our own death.
But nobody in the group was critical of his writing. We just encouraged him and made a few kind suggestions sensing that any undue harshness might discourage him or possibly cause the old boy to throw himself off a cliff or try to strangle himself with his own mouse cord. Sure enough it wasn't long before he wrote an amusing story about his childhood. Then another about his high school mishaps. They were lighthearted, interesting and actually contained a laugh or two. Nothing about death. What we didn't know was that what seemed like a preoccupation with death was really a dry sense of humor with a unique little twist. Before long he had his own Blog and had written a book that could be categorized as "delightful" with favorites of mine like Shower Songs. And, I'm looking forward to some that will be even more delightfuler. (Thats the beauty of belonging to the encouragement crowd, you can get away with delightfuler)

Danny and I have branched out from the group and created a group of our own now. We are prohibited from saying anything negative by federal mandate and professional courtesy since we have both been, ahem, published. You would think it wouldn't work very good but every time he reads my work and compliments me on a funny line it motivates me to write something. The nearest thing we come to criticism is reporting if something isn't clear. "Tim, not sure what delightfuler means. Please extrapolate." "Dan, not sure what extrapolate means, please..." etc.


I kind of broke off from the original group when an old nemesis of mine, posing as a writer no doubt infiltrated the group as a new member with no other thought in mind but to commit the fox paus of criticizing my work. Its not that I don't want criticism. Its that I don't appreciate rude criticism. And I don't like criticism that is based on personal preference. I took a break from the group after the critiques became so rude and opinionated I could take no more. I came back a year later but when I wrote a humorous story about elk hunting this certain member me took offense and criticized me sanctimoniously about what seemed to him a flippant attitude towards the taking of a game animal for meat. I wrote a scathing rant about people that despised hunting but wore leather boots and used leather saddles and ate chickens without so much as batting an eye. Poor chickens.

Also there is the public speaking story. Actually it was preaching. My wife and I took a preaching class at our church. When it was my turn to do my little preaching deal I shared about Gods love and told a story about my third grade teacher Mss. Klampee who washed poor David Dunleavys mouth out with soap for Saying "Gawwd." Not that he meant to take the Lords name in vain but probably because he had heard everyone in his immediate family say it a million times daily since his feetus hood.

Unbeknownst to poor David the wrath of God came in a fiery hand full of that pink powdery hand soap that Ms. Kampee shot up his nose when she crammed it in his mouth. About half killed the poor kid right in front of all of us. The event so traumatized me and our entire third grade class, let alone poor David, that, upon regurgitating (no pun intended) the sad tale of woa to the preaching class I burst out in tears and slobbered and snorted out the rest of the "sermon." The instructor a lady preacher was very gracious to me in front of the class and did not criticize my "delivery" for lack of a better word. She told me in my quiet prayer time God would show me where I could improve my style.

When my wife and I got in the car I asked her what she thought the lady preacher might have meant. My wife sayed, "Well, she probably meant that you shouldn't go SSNOOORRRRTT! and wipe your nose on your sleeve if you happen to be overcome by emotion on the pulpit" My Pookie does not often feel indebted to the non criticism clause in the federal mandate or anything else for that matter. She is handy too have around when one must cut the crap and incorporate a more direct approach. It saves time.

Anyhoo, it was sweet of the kind reverend to leave me with some dignity intact in front of the class. Dignity and confidence go hand in hand with encouragement. I went on to preach quite a few times after that when it would have been just as easy to give up. Ive also never forgotten her kindness. Also, thanks to my wife I have learned to keep poised when addressing a wowed congregation amidst a sea of tears and snot. Thanks Honey!

And finally there was the bucking horse ride I actually made in front of a small crowd where I received a compliment that I have never written about. I was attending a horse training clinic in Montana during the days when I fancied myself as a proud buckaroo and rider of the rough string. In reality I was neither but at least I was young and gullible enough to not know any better. An elderly lady brought a big mare that she had kept out on green grass who was tight as a tick and higher on grass than any crack addict in the territory. A group of people on horseback were instructed by the clinician to gallop their horses to the end of the arena and back. On the way back the slick fat mare packing the elderly women broke in two as it were, exploding in a wild bucking horse fit that culminated with the old girl homesteading a fine piece of arena dirt with such an awful violence that the crowd leaped to its collective feet and dashed to her aid. She sat up and emitted this horrible groan such as old people do before gasping their final breath. Then, she collapsed like a dead lady.

She was fine. Since she was an old cowgirl from Montana she didn't even break a hip, but she did need a little rest before riding again. The clinician said, "Wheres that Rawlins kid?" And I happily volunteered to ride the wild beast because I fancied myself a young bronc stomper and also because I was stupid.

I climbed on the mares back and waited and listened while we were given instruction. Before long the mare decided to blow up again into another bucking fit. In my typical fashion I rode her to a standstill much to the amazement and awe of the appreciative crowd. It was a spectacular bucking display if I do say so myself but because the old gal had topped her off before me my ride contained an element of surprise that most of my bucking horse rides did not, which was that I wasn't actually harpooned into the arena dirt myself. The crowd, which consisted of horsemen and family and pretty girls and basically everybody who I could have hoped to impress in the world granted me a lively ovation much to my humble and craving delight. To top it off, when the crowd quit clapping the experienced and highly revered clinician turned to his hapless assistant and said, " Alan, that kid's got more talent in his little toe than you have in your whole body!"

Compliments like this did not happen to me often or maybe ever but I will never forget the unfamiliar boost I get every time I think about it. I don't know about poor Allen. I guess I should bury the hatchet and contact my old writers group and see how he's doing.