I have a habit of always checking and double checking things. If someone tells me that, say, the library is open from 10AM till 5PM, I will probably call the library to verify that before I drive over there. It drives my wife crazy. She says that I never believe her. The truth is, I believe everybody but I usually check what they tell me. I’m sure it was President Ronald Reagan who (when referring to the Soviet Union) said, "Trust – but verify."
From long, sometimes painful experience I have found that frequently I am told things that range from being true to only half true, false, or a downright lie. Find yourself in a strange town and ask for directions and a large percentage of the time, someone will give you wrong directions rather than admit that they don’t know. Then I depend on that information and it ends up costing me time or expense – or both.
I remember going to my doctor and having him recommend a series of ultra-sound treatments for my injured ski knee. (He just happened to have one of those ultra-sound machines in his office.) I sat in one of the treatment rooms and in came a young technician wheeling a small stainless steel ultra-sound machine. It had a few dials, a power switch, a small hammer-shaped wand on an armored cable, a power cord and a little red light. She spread some petroleum jelly on my knee, flipped the power switch on, adjusted a few dials and began to gently massage my knee with the hammer thing. There was no pain, no vibration, no feeling of heat or cold and no sound (after all it was ultra-sound).
Ten minutes into the treatment I facetiously asked the technician, "I don’t hear anything, see anything and I don’t feel anything. How do we know whether this thing working?" I’m sure no one had ever asked her that before and she was a little confused by my question.
She thought about it for a long minute and finally she hesitantly replied, "Well, the little red light is on."
And I said, "Yes, I can see that but all it really tells us is that the red light is on. We still can’t be sure the machine is working can we?"
I didn’t pursue my questioning because it was clear that I was confusing the poor girl.
To be safe when you are given some information – especially when it is vital information – check it out. Just because the little red light is on does not verify that it’s working.
P.S. It did work and my knee felt much better after about four treatments.
451 words
© 2008 by Paul Burri
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Learning to Ski (Part 2)
In my last column I described my introduction to skiing and how I was dumped off at ski school while my friend, an experienced skier, went off by herself to do her thing.
Several years went by and I now considered myself an intermediate level skier. I now was dating a new friend who had never skied but was willing to try it. I assured her that I could teach her everything she needed to know to get started. Wrong! Read on.
We drove to Mammoth Mountain and the next day, there we were on the slopes; me, the "expert" and she, the novice. I took her to a spot where there was a very short, gentle slope and taught her the rudiments of side-stepping up the "hill" and snow-plowing back down. She seemed to catch on quickly and I felt sure she was ready for the "bunny" slopes.
As you may know, to get to the top of even the bunny slopes, you need to take a chair lift. Riding a chair lift is easy. Getting on and off – not so much. Frequently skiers – and especially novices - will miss a chair and fall down. Then the lift operators will shut it down so they can help the person get into the next chair. This not life-threatening but it is embarrassing and the delay does not go far toward making friends of your fellow skiers.
My friend and I eased slowly over to the bunny slope chair lift where there was the usual line of skiers waiting to get on the lift. It usually takes about 20 minutes to get to the head of a chair lift line which I had expected. I intended to teach my friend how to get on the chair while we were waiting in line. I told her to watch each skier as they got into position to have the chair come around behind them and to simply sit down and let it take you away. It’s really is pretty easy once you know how. (Just like everything else in life. The part about "once you know how" is the tricky part.) By the time we got to the head of the line, I felt pretty confident that she knew how to do it. Wrong again.
We reached the head of the line and the operator motioned us to move to the pickup point to get the next chair. When it did, I got on but my friend fell down and they stopped the lift and helped her get on the next chair.
Riding to the top of the hill on a chair lift varies but in this case it was about ten minutes to the top. Suddenly I realized that it was during this ten minute ride that I had planned to explain to my friend how to get off the lift. But now she was about forty feet behind me on the next chair. So there I was turning in my chair shouting back instructions on how to get off. (Can you get the picture?)
We reached the top and you guessed it – she promptly fell down again getting off of her chair. Things were starting to get frosty and I don’t mean the weather.
Eventually we made it to the top of the bunny slope. To a novice skier, even the bunny slope looks terrifying but I expected that. I now pointed out a small tree that was about 50 feet down the gentle hill from where we were standing. I told her, "You ski down to that tree. Just go slowly, snow-plowing all the way and stop when you get there. Then I’ll ski down to you and we’ll take the next step."
And she said, "No, you ski down to the tree and catch me when I get there."
That makes emotional sense to a novice skier. Doing it her way there will be someone to catch her and save her. But the logic is wrong. If she did it my way and was to fall anywhere in between, I could easily ski down to pick her up. If I skied down first and she fell on the way, my skiing back uphill to help her would not be so easy.
It was a long, cold day. It was a long, cold weekend. And I don’t mean the weather.
Don’t try to teach a loved one to drive or to ski or to skydive. You’re just asking for trouble if you do.
© 2008 by Paul Burri
Several years went by and I now considered myself an intermediate level skier. I now was dating a new friend who had never skied but was willing to try it. I assured her that I could teach her everything she needed to know to get started. Wrong! Read on.
We drove to Mammoth Mountain and the next day, there we were on the slopes; me, the "expert" and she, the novice. I took her to a spot where there was a very short, gentle slope and taught her the rudiments of side-stepping up the "hill" and snow-plowing back down. She seemed to catch on quickly and I felt sure she was ready for the "bunny" slopes.
As you may know, to get to the top of even the bunny slopes, you need to take a chair lift. Riding a chair lift is easy. Getting on and off – not so much. Frequently skiers – and especially novices - will miss a chair and fall down. Then the lift operators will shut it down so they can help the person get into the next chair. This not life-threatening but it is embarrassing and the delay does not go far toward making friends of your fellow skiers.
My friend and I eased slowly over to the bunny slope chair lift where there was the usual line of skiers waiting to get on the lift. It usually takes about 20 minutes to get to the head of a chair lift line which I had expected. I intended to teach my friend how to get on the chair while we were waiting in line. I told her to watch each skier as they got into position to have the chair come around behind them and to simply sit down and let it take you away. It’s really is pretty easy once you know how. (Just like everything else in life. The part about "once you know how" is the tricky part.) By the time we got to the head of the line, I felt pretty confident that she knew how to do it. Wrong again.
We reached the head of the line and the operator motioned us to move to the pickup point to get the next chair. When it did, I got on but my friend fell down and they stopped the lift and helped her get on the next chair.
Riding to the top of the hill on a chair lift varies but in this case it was about ten minutes to the top. Suddenly I realized that it was during this ten minute ride that I had planned to explain to my friend how to get off the lift. But now she was about forty feet behind me on the next chair. So there I was turning in my chair shouting back instructions on how to get off. (Can you get the picture?)
We reached the top and you guessed it – she promptly fell down again getting off of her chair. Things were starting to get frosty and I don’t mean the weather.
Eventually we made it to the top of the bunny slope. To a novice skier, even the bunny slope looks terrifying but I expected that. I now pointed out a small tree that was about 50 feet down the gentle hill from where we were standing. I told her, "You ski down to that tree. Just go slowly, snow-plowing all the way and stop when you get there. Then I’ll ski down to you and we’ll take the next step."
And she said, "No, you ski down to the tree and catch me when I get there."
That makes emotional sense to a novice skier. Doing it her way there will be someone to catch her and save her. But the logic is wrong. If she did it my way and was to fall anywhere in between, I could easily ski down to pick her up. If I skied down first and she fell on the way, my skiing back uphill to help her would not be so easy.
It was a long, cold day. It was a long, cold weekend. And I don’t mean the weather.
Don’t try to teach a loved one to drive or to ski or to skydive. You’re just asking for trouble if you do.
© 2008 by Paul Burri
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