At work, we’ve been discussing root cause problem solving as the best
way to improve our processes. The
concept is simple; asking those who do the work to give suggestions on how to better
do the work. My extended blue collar
family would call this common sense. I
come from a long line of farmers, welders, carpenters and the like. And they will tell you to ask a successful
farmer about crop rotations, not the preacher.
Ask the preacher about Jesus, y’all; it’s the area of his expertise. However,
there was one time when my family did not follow its own rule with a result
much like they should have anticipated.
Why they sent my ten year-old self, to feed Misty the (most evil)
Shetland pony, alone is something that has never been fully explained.
It was an unsurprisingly
hot August evening about an hour before dark, which is the key way to tell time
in the country. Dark is the dividing
line between being able to see (working) and not being able to see (resting). The children, me included, were slowly being
rounded up for baths, supper and then bed as children in my family were not supposed
to be seen or heard, y’all. While sitting on the back porch waiting my turn in
the bath, I feel sure I was sitting idly as chubby, sweaty children are prone
to do in the Louisiana heat. My Uncle
Ronald approached and instructed me to “go feed Misty”, the afore-mentioned Shetland
pony, who at this point had not been deemed evil, just avoidable as I have
never been a fan of riding horses, even on the carousel at the fair. The carousel horse offered motion sickness; real
horses offered a lack of control I found unacceptable.
I feel sure my
initial response, internally was, “Is he serious?” My verbal response was, “Yes, sir” due to the
fact that I was raised to not question those in authority and authority meant adults,
anyone who was really tall and my sister, regardless of her age or height. My unspoken thought as I walked as slowly as
I dared in the direction of the barn was, “but it’s so dark and there’s no
light out here.” I have always been
jittery under the cover of darkness especially on a farm that housed equipment,
providing all manner of locations for evil in its many forms to hide and wait
to “git ya” or so I had been told.
I need to clarify
that while I had grown up on my grandparents’ farm, it was during the summer
and all major holidays. I had been
around animals but at that point the only previous independent interaction with
them had been making sure I didn’t mix a monkey shirt with hippo pants in the
Garanimals section of JC Penney, people.
Ownership of Hee-Haw overalls does not a farmhand make.
Cut to me making
my way across the yard with a gait that was an original choreography of actual trepidation
and an attempt at bravery through posture.
I’ll bet Uncle Ronald wondered if I had to use the bathroom. Upon my arrival at the pen, Misty pretended I
wasn’t there; setting up her alibi, I would later realize. I opened the gate, remembering to close it
behind me as I had been taught and walked to the little room where the feed was
housed. I scooped out the feed using the
old coffee can as we are not a family who spends good money buying kitchen
implements for animal husbandry purposes.
I looked over my shoulder to assess the location of the pony in question
and saw her standing there staring at me, malevolence filling her eyes as the
sun faded along with my chances of escape.
I turned to
ensure I left no stray kernels of feed and in that instanct Misty turned around
and readied her malicious haunches so when I spun around to empty the can into
the trough, she kicked me square in the stomach and made a sound that can only
be described as a vindictive cackle while I fell head over heels into the
dirt. When I was able to catch my breath,
she stood eating her feed from the ground near me. I rose and Misty gazed at
me with a look so filled with hate it almost took my breath, again. Always one to go with my gut, which was now
bruised, I fled the pen specifically not stopping to close the gate in the
hopes that one of the monsters hiding amongst the equipment would take her in
the night.
Filled with the serendipitous
athleticism that is often available to those in crisis, I raced back towards
the house, holding my shirt over my head, pointing to my now-purpling stomach wound,
screaming that I had been attacked. Cut
to various uncles and cousins having to chase a horse up and down the road all
the while wondering “what is wrong with that boy?” My poor, sainted mother gave me a hug, put me
in the bath and, I feel sure, tried not to roll her eyes at her most dramatic
child who from that moment forward was literally and figuratively marked, by a
hoof print, as “the one who is not like the others”. Or at least that’s how I remember it.
To return to my
original point, if you don’t ask the right people for input and don’t put the
appropriate personnel to work to fix the problem, you will not get the result
you want. Root cause problem solving is
something farmers have known all these years; long before Toyota wrote a book
about it.
And that’s all I’m saying for now.
