When I was young, I read a science fiction story that made a significant impression on me. The title was, “A Little Bit of Oil,” but despite a quick google search I can’t now locate either the story or its author.

The tale was about mankind’s third round trip mission to Proxima Centauri, the nearest star to our Sun. The first two missions had never returned. Both disappeared while on track to land back on earth, and Mission Control was still trying to figure out exactly what went wrong.

On the third mission the fourth crew member did not fit neatly into any expected category. He was not a pilot or a scientist. His job seemed to be cooking, cleaning, and keeping the other three crew members amused.

After the third flight team successfully landed, it was revealed that the fourth member of their crew was a psychologist, whose job was to provide “a little bit of oil” for the inevitable human friction.  They realized that, encased in a tiny spaceship for ten years, the first two crews had become homicidal and killed each other off. The psychologist, however, was able to keep the third crew from a similar fate, primarily by using humor.

I’ve previously written about how, as a child, this story helped me personally navigate tricky situations. When family vacations went from fun to stressful, I pulled out humor and found it useful. While we often had fun during the day, once my dad needed to find a (cheap) motel, his mood usually turned sour, and he was often upset about something. (He always inspected the room before he paid for it and was often unhappy with its condition). But humor, it seemed, was always a great way to alleviate tension and stress.

One summer, I had the perfect opportunity to test this theory during a “key” moment one afternoon (pun intended).  Dad parked in front of our motel room, then discovered that he had locked his car — with his keys still in the ignition. We carefully retrieved the keys with a wire coat hanger from the room. But throughout the ordeal, I was able to keep everyone happy with a lot of topical humor. A Little Bit of Oil worked then, and it still works today.

And it’s also lots of fun.

Alan

I’ve heard it said that if you want to travel far, go with friends.  If you want to travel fast, go alone.

I believe I could separate the parts of my life into different parts. In one part, I go fast, such as writing my blog. I do that alone. Then there is the part where I go with others, such as to a dinner party.

Far and Fast.  Each one has its place in every life.

But if I had to choose just one, I think I would go far with friends.  After all, the journey – any journey, if only to the grocery store, can be more fully satisfying when you share it with others.  It might be valuable to make use of and even enjoy the time when you’re alone, especially since we all spend a lot of time alone (as when I am writing this blog).

But time spent with others connects us in a way that can be deeply meaningful and rewarding.

The problem of going far with friends is that, alas, they have their own needs and desires.  They want to go to the bathroom; it seems like every hour.  They want to take a detour to see a special view.  They sometimes just stare into space after finishing a meal instead of running to the car to resume the journey.

Upon reflection, maybe I really do prefer fast.  It’s fun to race against myself.  How fast can I actually run the 100-meter dash, or how quickly can I complete a blog?

We all face a huge variety of choices every day.  Stay at home or run errands.  Finish reading a book or attend a baby shower.  Finish the hard work first (not like me – I’ll determine if the task I dislike has to be done at all.  And if so, then perhaps I can find someone else to do it for me).

This blog is kind of an intermediate point.  I’m writing it alone, but I’m thinking about its impact on others.

I’m left with the thought that life far or life fast – both have their place.  I’m finished, for now, writing fast.  Now it’s time to send this to others for input.  It slows down the work but improves the final product. And after all – isn’t sharing with others what this blog is all about.

Alan

Daveen and I recently enjoyed brunch with one of our daughters and her husband. For whatever reason he and I started talking about raising children.

To my delight, we agreed on two very important aspects of parenting.

I said that my father did a pretty good job, with two exceptions.

The first was spanking. Dad spanked my brother and me as a punishment. (Fortunately, I was never on his “go to bed without dinner list.”  That was reserved for my younger brother, who was, shall we say, less strategic than I was.). While researchers have now made the case against using any kind of physical discipline against kids, some still use it.

Second was Dad’s insistence that I “finish everything on my plate,” even if I didn’t put it there.  I was told repeatedly about all the starving children in China. If I had thought of it at the time, I would have asked him exactly how the remnant of my dinner would be transported to China, but a snarky comment like that would probably have resulted in being sent to bed without my own dinner the following night.

When I was ten years old I made two promises to myself.

First, that I would never hit another person, and I haven’t.

I also vowed that I would never require my children to finish everything on their plate. I’m not blaming my dad, because I’m sure he didn’t know better, but forcing kids to eat teaches them to ignore their own hunger cues and can result in overeating. That might have been one reason I weighed more than two hundred pounds when I graduated high school. (My weight was 207, as I recall, eventually ballooning to 267 pounds.)

Raising children is a privilege, but one that we are seldom trained for. Most of us simply do to our children what our parents did to us.

I’m suggesting that we all rethink our habits, and retain those that are both useful and kind, especially with our greatest treasure — our children.

Spare the rod?

Absolutely.

Alan