That's Good Data

A Faux Real Story

Here’s another Faux Real Story for you on the eve of the new year!

I’ve got two more Faux Real Stories that I am offering up as a gift to you for the Holidays. That doesn’t mean I won’t share more in the future - of course. But, I suspect I will, once again, succumb to the reality of a daily life that includes a farm and an off-farm job. We’ll go back to articles on a wide range of topics with the once or twice a week schedule that seemed to work for most of the year.

In other words, there are no plans to stop - just move back to a realistic pace. There will be many more words to be found here in 2025!

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When I walk behind a wheel hoe or run one of our walk behind tractors, I find that my mind is able to multi-task fairly well. Obviously, I have to pay consistent attention to what I am doing so I don't destroy plants I want to keep with the wheel hoe. The stakes get higher with automation - a walk-behind is harder to steer and can do more damage. If am cultivating with a tractor, there is usually less brain multi-tasking going on because there is more potential to do harm - both to the crop and myself.

But, I digress…

My brain can go all sorts of places when I am walking back and forth along two-hundred foot rows of veggies. One place it went to a few years ago, much to my surprise, was my eighth or ninth grade science class. I don't recall for certain which, and that doesn't matter. What matters is the story that returned to the front of my brain.

Different Abilities

The instructor for this science class was Mr. Rasmussen, and he was, generally speaking, a capable teacher. Certainly, as far as I was able to tell, he knew plenty about the subject and I actually liked most of the things we covered - which is saying something when you are talking about a kid in middle school.

Everyone who is reading this knows this is going somewhere - so let's just get right to it. Mr. Rasmussen had a host of physical challenges. When he walked, it was with a shuffle that made it look like he could topple forward with each step. His feet never left the floor and you could hear him coming down the hall, his feet making “shhh” sounds as he moved along.

And you didn’t have to see him to know he had reached an obstacle.

shhhh, shhhh, shhhh, shhhh…… silence…. grunt… silence… grunt… shhhh shhhh shhhh

Mr. Rasmussen’s arms hung at his sides when he wasn’t using them, as if they might be too heavy for him. And there were many days when Mr. Rasmussen remained seated for the entire class. He spoke as if his tongue were two sizes too large for his mouth and the rumor (I never found out if it was true) was that he had had polio when he was younger.

Let’s not forget that some of the beings in this world who can be most cruel attend middle school (or junior high as I called it). It’s not necessarily through any fault of their own - it’s just part of the discovery process as they navigate uncertainties and fears along with the recognition that the infallible does fail. So, anyone as different as Mr. Rasmussen was certain to be a target for our juvenile humor.

Most students kept things between us, perhaps imitating his voice and his most frequent words or sharing a story about what happened in class. Most of us were aware of certain boundaries as to how far was too far, and I don’t think we truly meant ill. But I also suspect there were very few who were fully innocent of uncharitable thoughts or hurtful words and actions.

Exact measurements

One day, Mr. Rasmussen tried to give a demonstration in class that required “an exact and equal measurement of a liquid into two glass tubes. He began with all of the liquid and one tube and poured until roughly half was in the other. That’s when things started to go wrong.

The shaking of his hands and arms made it virtually impossible for him to achieve the exact and equal measurements he wanted. Invariably, the receiving tube would have a bit less than was needed, so he would pour a bit more - resulting in too much in the receiving tube. So, he would have to pour from that tube back into the other.

Back and forth. Too little. Too much. Too little. Too much. This went on for a VERY long time.

The entire class sat there and watched, initially murmuring in amusement but eventually getting very quiet - with a few quiet, but uncomfortable, laughs coming from a couple of the less reverent in the crowd. We were completely unsure of what to do. I could tell that some of the members of the class were inclined to just think it was funny and others thought it was sad. But, in general, it was supremely disconcerting. You see, Mr. Rasmussen did not seem to want help, though he did finally accept it when one member of the class offered to measure it out.

It took my classmate one try to get it leveled out.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

Once the “exact and equal amounts” were in their respective tubes, Mr. Rasmussen glanced up at the clock and announced, “Ahhh… we will do this next time. We’re out of time today.”

So, we sat there for a few more minutes. Then the bell rang.

Mr. Ed Rasmussen

Lessons Learned

I wish I could say I learned deep lessons that day, but I suspect they were relatively superficial. There was shame and concern and anger towards those who were crass enough to laugh in Mr. Rasmussen’s presence - all mixed in with some annoyance that the lesson was completed because he couldn’t complete a simple measurement. But I did walk away with a memory and a story that members of that class told and retold to each other for several years after.

The retelling had a humorous component - of course it did. How many comedy skits use the timing mechanic where the comic bumbles around to get things together only to find that time is up? And some of us had gotten very good at imitating Mr. Rasmussen’s voice, which effectively transported us (or maybe just me) back to that moment.

It was a shared experience that lived on in the story we told. We kept it alive until the day we were ready to learn the lessons it held for us.

I remember that I did have a good deal of internal pressure and debate when we witnessed our teacher struggling. I felt embarrassment on his behalf. He was an adult AND a teacher. He was supposed to be fully capable and it was hard to grasp that any instructor could be anything less than invincible - even if I was already aware that everyone made mistakes and fell short of expectations sometimes.

But then I would remind myself that his body only allowed him to do so much and there was no shame in that. But, I still felt embarrassment on his behalf because I knew (or suspected) my peers were thinking less than charitable thoughts. It’s only now that I fully realize there was nothing for Mr. Rasmussen to be embarrassed about. Instead, the students (including myself) probably should have been horrified by our lack of compassion.

The next battle was whether or not he would appreciate help and whether I dared to step forward and offer to change what was going on. I knew the answer - but then I had to fight my own shyness that was at its peak in middle school. It was made worse by the fact that I would have to walk from the back of the room to the front of the room.

Then there was the training that we had received as children that told us we should wait for the person in authority to direct what was going on. A kid was not supposed to step in when an adult was struggling without invitation.

I would like to say that I was the student who finally won the battle and volunteered to help. But, I wasn't. Instead, I desperately wanted to be that person. All the while, I felt a flood of relief when it was someone else who finally stepped up.

It was an extraordinary step to take - for one of us to volunteer to help. Which is exactly why I hold the memory of the person who did so in honor.

Good Data / Screwy Data

When our class worked on lab assignments, Mr. Rasmussen would shuffle from table to table, checking on our progress. If things were going well, he would approve by saying "Good data!" If you had made some sort of mistake, his response was always "Screwy data!" I learned to appreciate the complement that was "good data" and I was determined to avoid "screwy data" if I could possibly do so.

Lab and hands-on courses terrified me because they could result in public failure. I very much preferred to try things out without others nearby (or maybe a trusted advisor only) to witness potential failure or - even worse - see that I did not quite understand what was going on. Since public praise was far less difficult (but still not easy) to handle than public criticism, I would do what it took to avoid getting a “screwy data” pronouncement.

In some ways, I measured my Science class success by the number “good datas” I received. Somehow, he made that simple phrase sound warmer and more supportive in his thick and slurred speach. “Screwy data,” on the other hand, was uttered as a simple fact and not a judgement. It was followed by a recommendation to “do that again” and not much else unless a specific instruction was desparately needed.

While I did not like receiving a “screwy data” response, I disliked “do that again” even more. In my head, this WAS the supreme indignity - to be called out in a way others could hear. In the end, the desire to achieve "good data" and avoid “screwy data” with a “do that again” add-on overrode my reticence to try new things in front of a perceived audience.

The best path to avoiding public humiliation is to identify the path with the least potential for attention when there is no way to avoid exposure altogether, I guess.

Stepping Up

Stepping up and doing what seems like the right thing always sounds so easy when we say it. But, if it is really all that easy, why don't we do it more often? A big part of it is because you and I are all too worried about what others will see and think about us.

Happily, I have changed a bit since middle school. Sadly, I still lose the battle with myself to do the right thing too often. But, as far as I am concerned, hearing the words "screwy data" even once is STILL too many.

And so, I find that I try to push myself a bit every day to stand up for someone else just so I can hear Mr. Rasmussen say "good data" in my head. Sometimes I do something small like writing a blog that addresses difficult things. I might even place myself in the path of derision and public shame if I think it’s the right thing to do. I push my introverted self to speak up when I hear someone say something that is cruel or inappropriate. Once in a while, I'll stop the truck and help someone at the side of the road who needs it. There are times when I volunteer to do something to help someone else - even if it isn't something I want to do.

It’s not all the time. I’m nowhere near perfect. But it’s people like Mr. Rasmussen who helped me build a story that has so many excellent things to learn in it.

Here's to you Mr. Rasmussen! Thank you for stepping up when the kids needed you to.

That's good data.