Then my teacher decided it was time for us all to learn to tie our shoes. I paid careful attention while Teacher demonstrated making the knot, then forming a loop like one bunny ear, wrapping the other lace around, like putting the bunny in his hole, and then pulling the end of the lace partway through to complete the bow. I watched and memorized the steps. Then, like everyone else, I tried it. The knot was easy. The loop formed all right. I wrapped the lace around, then grew perplexed. What was I supposed to pull through? My fingers fumbled, pulling loose ends through all the holes I could find, but each time the bow collapsed and I ended up back at the knot.
Teacher demonstrated again, showing me where the lace should be inserted and pulled through. Nodding, I tried again. I aimed for the right hole, but couldn't get the lace to go through. My little fingers just couldn't manage it. Teacher told me to keep practicing.
When each of her students was ready, Teacher watched him tie his shoes. As each one passed this test, she printed his name on a piece of colored construction paper and stapled it onto the "Shoe Tying" bulletin board. I still couldn't manage it, but practiced on the dressing doll during free play. I knew I'd get it, and I'd ask for my name to be posted on red paper.
Several weeks later, I choked back tears every time I looked at the shoe tying board. There were more than twenty names there now, but not mine. I still played with the dressing doll during recess, but after fastening the snaps, buttons, and zippers, I put the doll away. I couldn't tie the shoes. I'd thought I was smart, but when it came to tying shoes, I was dumb. The dumbest in the class, judging by the shoe tying board.
At home, Mommy showed me bow-tying over and over. She watched while I practiced, assuring me I was trying to do it right, but I just couldn't get that end pulled through with fingers that tangled up with the effort.
One night when he came home from work, Daddy must have noticed I was unhappy, so he asked what was wrong. Then, sitting right there on the stairs, he showed me his way of tying shoes.
"Let's try it a different way. Make two loops the same size," he said (two bunny ears instead of one, I thought), "then tie a knot with the two loops." When he finished demonstrating, I tried it his way, and made a beautiful bow on the very first try!
A smile lit my face, but I was curious. "Why teach us that hard way when this one is so easy?" I asked. Daddy didn't know, but it didn't matter; I could show Teacher my bow and get my name stapled up on the board next to everyone else's. I did, on red paper.
It was Dad who again came to my rescue more than ten years later, when I was learning to drive a car. Parallel parking was a requirement of the driver's test. The driving teacher presented an elaborate twelve-step procedure for perfect parking, which I dutifully copied down. It went something like this: Step 1: Pull alongside the car in front of the space until your back bumper is even with their back bumper. Step 2: Turn the steering wheel as far as it will go toward the curb. Step 3: Put the car in reverse. Step 4: Turn your head and look into the passenger's side mirror. Step 5: Move backward until you can just see the curb in the mirror. And so on.
The problem was, these steps made little sense to me. Not only did I have trouble remembering them, but they seemed to discount the fact that there were cars in front and behind that you could hit! The procedure didn't allow for looking at them. I doubted I'd ever master it without wrecking the car. I'd probably never get my license.
When Dad took me out to a parking lot to practice, I tried once again to follow the teacher's steps. Finally, Dad asked what in heaven's name I was doing. I explained the procedure the best I could.
Dad only frowned. "Switch places," he said, and took the wheel himself.
"Let's try it a different way. Just feel it. Pull up to about here," he said, demonstrating, "then go backward until about half the car is clear, then head toward the curb. But don't cut the wheel in too tight or you'll end up with your front end sticking out. When the front of the car is clear, straighten out some until you're parallel with the curb. See?"
I did see. Dad's steps seemed much less complicated than the 12-step procedure.
When I tried it, I did end up turning the wheel too sharply, and the car's headlights stuck out toward the road, but I already knew what I'd done wrong. On the second try, I turned the wheel a tiny bit less and slowly backed the car right into its slot. It wasn't very close to the curb, but it was parallel to it and within the painted boundaries. Yes!
With a little more practice using Dad's "feel it" method, I easily passed my driver's test.
What a gift Dad bestowed when he said, "Let's try it a different way!"
First appeared in Country Woman, June/July 2007.