WRITING ON THE WALD
Let’s talk about one of my favorite topics – famous statisticians! I bet that interests many people.
Abraham Wald was contracted by the Air Force during World War II. His task was helping determine where airplanes needed reinforcement against enemy fire. He painstakingly measured the locations where bullet holes punctured the fuselage of airplanes returning from missions.
Wald developed some very clever charting techniques. Using diagrams of planes, he denoted where the bullets pierced the fuselage, making sure to indicate where multiple holes were located. When he presented his findings, the bullet hole charts made it very clear where extra plating was needed to protect the vulnerable spots. The big brass concluded that the areas most frequently shot were where reinforcement was needed.
Wrong.
Wald cleverly deduced that since planes with bullet holes in observed locations returned from combat, the areas with no or very few observed holes must be the most vulnerable. Odds are planes hit in those locations were the ones that weren’t returning. Hence, where no bullet holes were found on the returning planes were the places to reinforce.
Sometimes the most obvious answer is too simple. We seek an easy explanation and when one presents itself that seems reasonable, we suspend our critical thinking. We let the simple explanation suffice.
For example, we do something and another person displays annoyance. We simply conclude the source of the person’s annoyance is our fault. We jump through hoops to rectify a situation which may have nothing at all to do with us. Perhaps some other issue arose to affect the person’s mood. Our attempts to correct something uncorrectable may then annoy them. This only makes a bad situation even worse.
Or, someone pays attention to us and we like it, so we assume that person must really have our best interest at heart. We literally devote ourselves to the person, but later find out our attention simply satisfied a need which fulfilled the other person’s desires. Once fulfilled, we’re dismissed, hungry for more, but left starving in our own self-induced famine.
Though it’s usually best to start by taking things at face value and offering trust freely, things are not always as simple as they seem. Sometimes we’re better served by entertaining other perspectives.
There is danger of driving ourselves crazy by trying to analyze every contingency, but by fitting every event into the storyboard created in our minds, we also risk danger.
Life is fraught with risks. We never have all the information needed to assess every situation. It all comes back to balance. Balance is a crucial concept which arises in every aspect of our existence.
Whether it’s performing statistical analysis or trying to assess an event in our lives, balancing risk with reward is a consideration. The greater the risk, the more caution is prudent.
Sometimes we really need to take a leap of faith and just take a risk. But other times critically evaluating a choice is called for. How do we know which is which?
Generally we call upon our past experience. This seems reasonable. However, following past patterns often lead us to the same results. If life was that simple, then the “that’s the way we’ve always done it and that’s how we’ll always do it” logic would be spot on. But, we have many, many examples to show us this doesn’t always work.
Picking up on subtle nuances and clues is another option. However, we know we’re prone to misinterpretation. So where does that leave us?
Well, both those strategies are useful, but a clear voice raises itself to offer guidance. That is our intuition, or as I refer to it, our “inner voice.” That’s the voice which speaks from a place of calm. In our hearts, we hear its truth ringing. Trust yourself to hear it.
Take it from Abraham Wald, reinforce those areas which don’t return to you when they go out on a mission. And I’ll add, take risks exposing yourself on those that do return.
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I’m nuts about dinosaurs and Paleontology. As a kid, I hunted for fossils in our garden until I got yelled at for digging too many holes. One time, I boiled a lamb bone in the interests of scientific research to discover what a dinosaur bone might look like if I found it in the field.
At age ten, while digging in the woods, I found a small rock with an unusual fossil in it. The fossil had tiny raised bumps like those on a plucked chicken or your arm when you get goose bumps. I thought for sure it was Dino skin.
I’d found plenty of fossilized shells and sharks teeth, marveling at how they ended up at the top of what was now a mountain. Skin or soft tissue however, is rarely fossilized because it decays too quickly. A fact every fifth-grader knows. That made my find even more fantastic. I hid it in a shoebox away from prying eyes.
I showed my treasure to my brother, Mark. He said the fossil looked like a plant, nothing more. What did he know? He was just jealous.
I showed the rock to my friends, Mikey, Wolfgang, and Christa.
Mikey examined the fossil with a magnifying glass. He took out a big, fat book on Dinosaurs and ruffled through the pages excitedly. He said it was definitely the kind of skin you’d expect a nasty carnivore like Tyrannosaurus Rex (T-Rex) to have — coarse and crinkly. He showed us a close-up, artistic rendering of T-Rex’s hide.
But Wolfgang disagreed. He took the Dinosaur book from Mikey and turned to the section on plant-eating Dinosaurs. His opinion was the skin was that of a placid, enormous plant-eater like Brontosaurus. With T-Rex after him, the chance of Bronti losing some skin was higher. I didn’t know who was right. All I knew is that I had dead Dino on my hands.
Christa had no opinion, although she did try to steal my rock. I knocked her to the ground before she could get away with it though.
When it was my turn to do “Show and Tell” at school I displayed my rock with its mysterious fossil. I told everyone how a volcano had erupted long ago in Shrub Oak and buried a big Dinosaur (species unknown). The dead Dino was mummified.
This fossil of its skin was the only thing left. If you held the rock up close to your nose you could breathe in the scent of that old leathery hide. I passed around the rock. Everyone could smell ancient Dino except my teacher, Mrs. McIntyre.
I dreamed about going down to the American Museum of Natural History in New York City and showing my rock to the chief Paleontologist. I imagined his eyes widening in wonder and awe at my discovery.
My rock would be put on display, my smiling photograph nearby, a plaque (with my name on it) erected. I wouldn’t have to do chores at home for a week. A parade would be organized in my honor, putting the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade to shame.
The Mayor would present me with a key to the City and a check for buying anything I wanted at the FAO Schwarz Toy Store.
My face would appear on Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom”. I’d let National Geographic print my story, but only if they got me box-seat tickets to a Yankee game.
One day, Mother threw out my rock “by accident” while she was cleaning. And that was the end of my fossil and dreams of glory.
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I planted a garden. Row after row of shooting stalks, covered with a thick foliage of green leaves wavering in the breeze. Golden rays of nurturing sunlight bathe my blossoming bed of growth. Sprinkled by life-giving showers of nourishing rain, they rise strong and sturdy. Reaching toward the heavens, they open up, ever closer to the divine force which ultimately is responsible for their life.
At times, the blustery destruction of a brewing storm erodes a layer of earth protecting their tender roots, exposing some to harm. This causes these once hopeful plants to shrivel from desiccation. They wither into crumbling sticks that splinter, then decompose, never to feel communion with life again.
Then at other times, I sow more seeds into the earth that I’ve tilled with the toil of my effort. I work the soil with the strength of my hands and the tenderness of my heart. Most of the seeds take hold, growing into those shooting stalks covered with that thick foliage of green leaves wavering in the wind. They sprout and cover the empty spots left vacant by those violent storms. Though some never take root.
And sometimes the entire field gets wiped out. I’m left alone. Pondering my failures and reeling in sorrow.
When that happens, I try replanting. Sometimes I’m successful. Other times I’m not and move on to a new field.
I have many such fields I tend.
These gardens represent my relationships with others.
The plants growing and thriving are the kindness and compassion I sow, bonding me closer to another and sharing in joy. The violent storms I manifest through selfishness and cruelty, which causes pain, and destroys part of that bond. Though I try planting new seeds to renew the friendship, sometimes the sheer devastation of my callousness cannot be overcome. The friendship is lost. Even more tragic, it could be a friendship with a family member or someone else of special significance.
I’m not saying the basis of my relationships is the sum of the kindness I offer, subtracting the selfishness I inflict. That would reduce them all to nothing more than business deals, where everything becomes a quid pro quo defined entirely by tit for tat interactions.
They are so much more than that. There is also the ever present web of love which connects the entire family of humankind. Sunshine represents this love. The sun always surrounds us with its warmth and regenerative powers to soothe, heal, and foster growth. Though, like sunshine falling on a barren field, if there is no life left to receive its blessing, then regardless of its bounty its gifts are wasted.
Relationships are like gardens. They are strong, but still fragile, depending on sustained effort and thoughtful planning. We must tend them in earnest with our best intentions. If we neglect them or fail in repairing them after some crisis wreaks havoc, they die, laying fallow, and leaving us in want.
I’m going to water my gardens now. How about you?
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I hate the cold, being cold or being exposed to it.
My ears get numb if I jump into water anything less than eighty degrees. My nose runs horribly from the cold, defying even a towel to sop it up. It was upsetting when a $50 bottle of lotion I left in my car froze and burst, coating my car mat with chunky, pink slime.
I do understand the need for cold or coldness. Without cold temperatures, there are no ice cubes to drop into my sweet tea. Without cold water, I’d wash my dark clothes in hot or warm water. (Men might not know this, but the colors would bleed in warm water.) Without cold there’d be no snow. Without snow, reindeer, sleds and the North Pole, Santa would need a brand new gig.
Let’s face it. Ice is a key ingredient in the Universe. It’s the basis for snow cones and comets. No one would be interested in our Moon these days if it was just a grey, boring, dust-ball. It’s made a comeback. The potential of buried ice is what jazzed it up.
Personally, my interest in ice revolves around trying not to break my neck when I’m ice skating here on Earth. And that’s only at an indoor rink where I can escape outside into a sweltering summer day.
People from the North who moved down South complain about the heat during the summer. Not me — the steamier the better. I’m just getting lubed up when the temps approach ninety. I like to bake out in the sun just like a gator on a hot rock.
As far as ocean water goes, my ideal temperature is like bath water. I shouldn’t get a shock when I immerse myself. Of course, one key difference is instead of a rubber ducky floating in the water there could be a Great White.
I’m used to the climate down here now. So when it does get “cold” I bundle up like a Southerner. This means, a hat and coat, gloves and socks (with sandals) when the temps get down into the lower sixties. Long pants are a must.
In the event it snows, the prevailing attitude while driving is “watch out for me!” There’s no such thing as snow removal. You just wait for the temperatures to rise and the snow melts.
On rare occasions, when more than a dusting of snow is predicted, the store shelves are emptied of milk, bread and grits. I guess the locals worry about being snowbound without access to staples. As for me, as long as one liquor store remains open, I’m fine.
Certain foods wouldn’t exist without the cold, like ice cream. Of course, we’ve all eaten melted ice cream like soup. But where’s the fun in that when you want to add whipped cream and cherries?
There’s a sizeable segment of the population that doesn’t know how to prepare a meal from fresh ingredients. For these folks, any unavailability of “frozen foods” would be a calamity. They’d have to resort to hot dogs and Spam (not the electronic kind).
Without refrigeration, we’d have to make do with salt and dehydration to preserve food. I don’t know about you, but the thought of consuming salted, dehydrated chocolate cake holds little appeal for me.
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I know you’re discouraged when things seem to be leading nowhere. I also know something that you don’t. Things will turn around.
I know you may not allow yourself to believe it, but it’s true. I live “good things happening” daily. The last 10 years I’ve given myself over to it and it still amazes me how it works without fail.
If I could give you one thing, I’d give you just a seed of the hope that fills my entire being. That tiny seed is enough to fill you with enough hope to overcome all your fears and negativity.
I envision many things manifesting, and they eventually do. Either you’re amazed or rolling your eyes in disbelief, but this manifesting thing does work.
“So why doesn’t it work for me?” you might ask.
It does work for you. So many things have come to you. But you step back and forth over the threshold which separates gratitude from expectation. You step across so much that you still have one foot on each side. With that much flip flopping, how can you detect any change whatsoever?
You see, many of the things you manifest are not necessarily the ones at the top of your expectation list. So, your radar is not honed on them when they occur. Hence, it’s not always obvious to you when things do manifest.
The more time you spend on the gratitude side, the easier it is to see them when they manifest. Also, the easier it is to be patient in waiting for the things that have yet to manifest.
So many things are coming to you that you wanted, just not exactly in the way you expected. Maybe you wanted to be out of a job that was literally destroying your health, your happiness, and your hold on sanity. You expected that you’d leave your current job by getting a new position, but then your company went through a downsizing and you were let go. It didn’t follow your expectation, but it still happened. And, look how much improved your mental health and anxiety level has become, even though your bank account is smaller.
Perhaps you wanted to be loved completely. You expected it to be one person, but someone else is showing you that love. And you miss seeing it because you’re still lamenting about not receiving it from the other person.
There are many other things coming to you that you wanted. But with all those unresolved expectations, the fulfilled ones don’t get noticed. And you’re the only one who can recognize them.
Riding the coattails of all those successes will be the one at the top of your list of expectations. But since that hasn’t manifested yet, you’re not seeing all the other things that are manifesting.
It will come, probably not on the timetable you desire, but rather on the timetable that will serve your greater good. That’s been my experience.
As long as you don’t override that process by forcing something to happen that looks good, but really isn’t what you ultimately desire. Instead, just be patient for the right opportunity to present itself and it will happen.
Maybe there are things you still need to learn yet before you’re ready to receive that gift. What are they? Only you can figure that out. I can be there for moral support and maybe some guidance, but you are the only who can figure out what you still need to learn.
So, don’t get discouraged. Things will turn around. That’s as good as guaranteed.
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When I was a kid, I loved the snow. And we got plenty of it in New York.
Each winter I looked forward eagerly to the first snow flake. It heralded the start of winter and sledding, ice skating, and hot chocolate. Snow-ball fights with my younger brother, Mark, were especially fun — his aim was terrible.
I convinced Mark that yellow snow was lemon-flavored — until he sampled some. I told Mark we’d make snow angels. Then left him there, flailing in the snow, while I grabbed the sled for an extra downhill run. We were buds though, when it came to building a snow fort. It took at least two people to do that.
Our house in the Hudson Valley region sat on a hill, which afforded a commanding view of the surrounding mountains. Mother used to say, on a sunny day, you could see clear to Jersey. Piano Mountain (named after a bad trade the Taconic Indians made in the 1700s) occupied the immediate foreground.
Before a storm, heavy clouds would descend upon Piano Mountain, blocking it from view. I knew as long as the mountain remained hidden, the storm would persist. I spent many anxious moments, my breath fogging the glass of my bedroom window, willing the snow to continue until I could get out and play in it. Of course when I was older, I was expected to shovel the driveway first. But if I quickly scooted out of the house, the only one to help was Mark.
We’d get several snow storms severe enough to close down school. I used my book-bag as an extra sled since I didn’t need it for anything else. Mother must have sent me out to play in a blizzard once too often though. How else can I explain hands and feet that go numb when the temperature outside is only in the fifties?
I loved it when we had a blizzard. No school and Dad stayed home from work. It was like a holiday — an unexpected treat. I’d spend most the time indoors, playing Monopoly®, watching TV, eating, picking fights with Mark. Those were special times.
Back then, Dad smoked. He was up to four packs of cigarettes a day. He had cartons of spare cigarettes stashed around the house, in his car, and at work — just in case he ran out.
One time, he did. We had a three-day blizzard with total white-out conditions. By day four, the blizzard showed no signs of abating and Dad had used up his cigarette hoard. Mark and I were too young to understand the meaning of “addiction”. But we recognized the look of wild desperation on Dad’s face as something unusual.
Dad resolved to hike down to the liquor store to procure his precious cigarettes. (Mother called them “lousy” cigarettes.) This was a roundtrip trek of at least six miles.
Mother told him he was a fool and cried about losing him. Mark and I begged Dad not to go, our arms wrapped tightly around his legs. But go he did. We watched him trudge off and disappear into a sea of swirling white.
We spent seven agonizing hours waiting for him. It had grown dark outside. Then we heard the front door open.
A blast of cold air and snow heralded Dad’s icy return. Smiling, he waved a carton of cigarettes over his head like a trophy.
“Daddy!” we cried. Mark and I ran to hug him.
Mother stood at the top of the stairs. “Great! You’re not dead. I’ll go tell the police.”
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Living in the south, I see a lot of Ole Dixie. Not so much the flag itself, but I see the emblem emblazoned on everything from t-shirts to beach umbrellas to dog sweaters. It’s a controversial emblem, evoking either fierce pride or cries of racism. There’s not much middle ground – until now.
I saw a bumper sticker today with Ole Dixie on it that expressed a viewpoint of tolerance. It read, “Heritage, Not Hate.” I like that.
Under no circumstance do I condone slavery or racism. But, neither will I deny the past just because it brings up uncomfortable emotions.
That bumper sticker says volumes more than its simple message. To me, it says that while hateful things occurred when that flag flew, we cannot dismiss it. It is still a part of our heritage. Ole Dixie does not just symbolize oppression, it also symbolizes respect, courtesy, and strong family ties.
The southern culture in the United States is built on respect – respecting one’s elders, family, neighbors, community, and the government. Even at places like fast-food restaurants the counter staff commonly says sir and ma’am when addressing customers. You’d be hard pressed to hear someone yell out, “Hey, bub,” unless maybe it’s a vacationer from up-north.
When disagreeing with one another, southerners are generally not as aggressive or “in your face” about it, as I’ve seen when I lived in the north. Even when there is obvious tension, they tend to remain civil and show each other a level of courtesy that might seem foreign or appear fake in other areas of the country. Even if it is sometimes not genuine, the courtesy shown is exemplary.
Throughout the country people have close-knit families. But quite often that closeness is most apparent between parents, children, and siblings; with grandparents and an occasional aunt or uncle thrown in for good measure. But, in the south, it’s not uncommon seeing strong family ties extended to distant cousins – both by blood and by marriage. Here, the term “kin” is all inclusive.
So, Ole Dixie also stands as a symbol for all the rich heritage of southern living which upholds strong moral principles. Oh sure, there are negative issues spawning from over zealousness and xenophobia, but that happens in every culture and region. For example, look at the anonymity and gang violence runing rampant in many large northern cities, or the “us against them” mentality displayed by some pockets further west.
So, “Heritage, Not Hate,” is a beautiful way to remind us that no culture can be defined by only one aspect of its history. There’s a lot to be proud of in the southern way of living. Certainly there are aspects that are shameful, but these should not be held as a blanket condemnation.
We must embrace all of our history and learn from it. Having suffered through the era of slavery and rampant racism, we now understand just how destructive that kind of behavior is. We see the scars it’s left upon all of us. We shouldn’t feel shame and just purge it from our memory, like we might an old document off our hard drive. Rather we should remember, feel pride that we’re overcoming our hatred, and use that experience to propel us toward greater harmony.
Couldn’t we do that with all our past atrocities? Not forget, but instead learn, forgive, and honestly use our experiences to make the world a better place to live.
So, next time you see Ole Dixie, remember, “Heritage, Not Hate.”
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I have nothing against Internet dating, in theory. But after many years of thinking my next soul mate was only a click away, I’m very disillusioned. I distrust photos, especially if the guy is wearing a hat. And I pay attention to personal information, like recent jail time.
So how does a person find a member of the opposite sex they’re compatible with?
This question has puzzled mankind for ages. Back in the days of cavemen, a single male would club an available female and haul her off to his cave. When she came to, he’d have her clean some animal skins and crack a nut or two to test her skills. If she passed, she was automatically his mate — until a better nut-crusher came along, that is.
I believe singing evolved first among men as a means of assessing mate potential. Ladies who didn’t run away or cover their ears were “dates”. And dating was a means for the man to decide if he’d want to venture beyond the window-shopping stage.
As time went on, decisions about marriage were made by parents for their offspring. The kids couldn’t be trusted making such important decisions on their own. Decisions that affected the number of goats the family owned or whether a grandkid inherited a goofy smile.
Today things are more complicated. “Dating” is a mutual decision, usually not involving parents. And neither men nor women are necessarily looking for mates when they spend time with each other. They can just “hang out” in loose social groups. This might never lead to anything other than barfing together after a keg party.
In my book, agreeing to meet a person you’ve met on the Internet isn’t a date at all. It’s a “look-see” to figure out if you want to date the person. When your primary interaction with someone is on the phone or via email, you’ll only know what they tell you.
And as I mentioned before, photos are deceiving, especially given the technology available now to alter them. Although a person won’t get too far on a “date” if they sent a picture making them look like a movie star and then reality falls significantly short.
Of course, you can weed out folks whose names show up on sex offender lists. But what you really need are important non-verbal clues derived only from meeting someone in person.
For me, it was the guy who kept looking at my feet at the restaurant we went to. I thought maybe it was because my feet are troll-like. But no — turned out the guy had a foot fetish. Midway through the meal he breathlessly asked me if he could pour his Diet Coke® into my shoe and drink it. I politely declined.
I met another promising Internet date at a bar. The guy proceeded to get very drunk and cried about losing his girlfriend. Thankfully, he passed out halfway through the evening and I was able to have a decent conversation with the bartender — but he was married.
Then there was the guy at lunch who insisted on showing me pictures of his kids. He fumbled with his wallet and out popped a couple of condoms. He proceeded to tell me a very long story of how his friends had loaded them into his wallet so he’d be “ready for action”. Now, the guy was pleasant-looking, but by no means someone who’d be besieged for “action”. But it did produce an action in me. I asked for the check.
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To everyone who celebrates Christmas, have a happy and joyous day filled with the love of friends and family.
To those who don’t celebrate Christmas, have a happy and joyous day filled with the love of friends and family.
No matter what day of the year it is, please promote harmony, joy, and love!
If you're enjoying this over coffee, tea, or whatever, please consider buying me a cup!MY XMAS LIST
I didn’t do a good job of communicating to others what I‘d like for Christmas. How else can I explain getting a gift bag filled with barbeque tortilla-chips? And exactly what am I supposed to do with the army of slipper-socks I received in my stocking?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m certainly grateful for the sentiment behind each gift. I just wish I could properly express my gratitude to my Minnesota cousins for the lifetime supply of pea soup.
So, in an effort to head off future attempts at guessing what I’d like, here’s my list for next year. To maximize the choices, I picked at least one item for every letter of the alphabet. Isn’t that special? No need to thank me.
Artificial Snow (so I can experience the joy of snow without the cold and damp)
Blue Candy Canes (blueberry-flavored, not ink flavored)
Cockroach Traps (the kind for jumbo mutant bugs)
Deer (fake, lawn ornaments. Pink colored would be best)
Eggnog (already spiked, ready to drink straight from the can)
Foil Christmas Wrapping Paper (no pictures of baby polar bears or penguins, please)
Gargoyles (I just like ‘em)
Hat (the kind I can pull down over my eyebrows when I haven’t had time to pluck)
Italian Men (I hear they’re good for something. Is it opening jars?)
Jet (a small one would be fine)
Knapsack (one filled with $500 bills would be nice)
Lasso (I need something to catch the Italian men with, don’t I?)
Mouth Guard (sounds too good to be true)
No Airline Flight Delays (who am I kidding?)
Oatmeal (it makes me go)
Prairie Dog (I hear they make good companions)
Qiviut (musk ox wool — I’ll be the first on my block to have some)
Razors (I need as many as you can spare)
Sheets, Baking (but please, no Teflon® — food slides off before I can get it out of the oven)
Trash Can (the kind with a self-closing lid so I don’t create habitat for fly larvae)
Underwear (the ones that cover most of the butt)
Vaseline (for when vegetable shortening just doesn’t cut it)
Wealth (I’m working on it, but contributions are always welcome, click here to make one)
Xylophone (shouldn’t everyone have one?)
Yardman (he should be out raking the leaves — not me)
Zinfandel Wine (what I’ll be drinking as I watch my yardman work)
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