Monday, August 15, 2016

Leading with Your Heart


I'm and ENFJ and I'm here to help!

Over 20 years ago, I was introduced to Myers Briggs Personality Type Theory and I was hooked from the start. All my life I had felt that there was something wrong with me because I was more sensitive and easily wounded than either of my parents and many of my friends. Throughout my childhood and teen years, I was chastised for "wearing my feelings on my sleeve" and for not being able to easily "roll with the punches." I was much relieved when I first took the MBTI and found out that, though my ENFJ type is relatively rare in the population (15% or so), there are still lots and lots of people like me - dominant Extraverted Feelers - outgoing folks who lead with their hearts.

So, I realized, there wasn't something wrong with me after all. I am who God made me to be - and that's all right. Do I need to cultivate my critical thinking skills or to even learn how to put on a Teflon overcoat when called for? Of course. There are definitely times when it's important to know how to remove feelings from the equation and to reason logically - considering only the facts. And there are even times when that nonstick surface is essential for letting the negative (especially unnecessarily harsh criticism) slide off. But still, most of the time it's okay to be me and to lead with my heart.

Understanding my personality type has also helped explain much of my approval-seeking behavior. Wanting to be loved and approved of by others is natural for most folks, but it is in the DNA of ENFJ's like me. We need atta-girl's and encouraging smiles almost as much as we need air and water, which is why we try so hard to get validation from others and why we feel so defeated and hopeless when approval is consistently withheld. When others disapprove of us, or heaven forbid, dislike us, we are demolished - and at least in my case, I find myself back in the downward spiral of self blame - wondering "What's wrong with me? Why don't they like me?"

Being an ENFJ also helps to explain why I have such a difficult time ending relationships or cutting people loose - even when those relationships or people are toxic to me. I just can't seem to give up working toward reconciliation even when it isn't in my best interests. Often, I'm plagued by thoughts like, "If I just try hard enough, he/she will come around," of "I know I can be who he/she wants me to be," thoughts that are not productive and should be quickly short-circuited. Trouble is, people-pleasing is not only a product of my upbringing, it's in my very nature, and learning when to let go is difficult to impossible.



That deep-seated need for approval is why excessive criticism can be completely debilitating for Extraverted Feelers, like me. Want to crush me? That's easy - just keep finding fault with me without ever balancing that by offering any praise. Since my natural tendency is for self-blame, all you have to do is feed into that and you can get the best of me without really trying. But on the flip side, all it takes is a few kind words, a compliment or two, and you'll get the very best me there is. I will work harder, and more joyfully, just to keep the praise coming.

Yes, I'm and ENFJ and I'm here to help.


Tuesday, August 9, 2016

A Hen, a Toe, and a Pie Pan - A Tale of Murder in Rural Bedford County Virginia



All of the funny stories in my family do not come from my dad's side of the tree. There are anecdotes aplenty in my mother's branches as well. How could there not be with six sisters, three brothers, an old bachelor uncle, and my grandmother and grandfather all living together in the big, white farmhouse?

On the afternoon in question, my Aunt Vi, short for Viola Frances, AKA "Dinky" (a pet name given to her by my grandfather - a name she loathed by the way), was sitting on edge of the back porch, swinging her feet back and forth. The day before, she had stubbed one of her big toes, so it now sported a huge gauze bandage. Vi was never one for understatement, or for doing anything half-way. The enormity of the bandage was definitely overkill for the treatment of a relatively small injury, but it got her out of some of the chores she hated for a day or two, so she was milking it.


As many small family farms did, back in the day, the chickens were given the run of the yard. They milled around beneath Vi's feet, as she sat on the porch, browsing for bugs and leftover grain. One hen in particular was curiously attracted to the big, gauze wrapping on Vi's toe, and before she could be shooed away, she pecked viciously at the bandage, bringing shrieks of pain from Dinky.


The cries brought my Aunt Reva (Reva Belle - no nickname here as Reva was not the nickname sort) running to see what was happening. Now, Reva was the serious, determined, get out of the way, I'm in charge, sister, so when she found Vi crying and clutching her toe, and pointing angrily at the guilty hen, she sprang into action. Picking up an empty pie pan, which had previously held chicken feed, she sailed it, Frisbee-like, toward the offending hen. Though her intention had only been to scare the old girl, sadly, Reva's aim was true. The pie pan hit the poor chicken with a solid "thunk," instantly breaking her neck.

First came the shock of realizing that the hen was dead and then came the dilemma - What to do with the chicken? In his younger years, my grandfather was not the most patient or indulgent father. Who would be, raising ten kids on a hardscrabble farm through the depression? So, the girls were more than a bit nervous about telling Granddaddy that Reva had accidentally killed a chicken. To head off any adverse consequences, Reva decided that they would just have to prepare the chicken as if she had always been the dinner entree. Unfortunately for Vi, executing that plan meant that her strategy to avoid chores because of her injury was necessarily derailed, as she was forced to help behead, clean, scald, pluck, and ready the hen for the evening meal.

Thankfully, for Vi and Reva, their ploy worked. Granddaddy never found out that the chicken he enjoyed for his supper was actually a murder victim - well, second-degree henslaughter victim, anyway. And they had a funny story to tell for years to come.

Thursday, August 4, 2016

The Stiff Neck Chronicles


All families have their quirks and quirky members. Many also have humorous anecdotes about particular members that are oft-shared and oft-repeated, until everyone in hearing range can quote them verbatim. My family is no exception. Fact is - We probably have quite a few more anecdotes to share than most families because the majority of our family members have a comic quirk or two or three. More likely than not, whenever two or more are gathered together, either my brother or I will recite one, or two, or three of those funny stories. And of course, I'm going to do so right now.

The first story I'll call, "Stiff Necks and Volkswagen's." Both my grandfather and my father worked for the railroad. Their jobs, as a locomotive mechanic and electrician, required them to crawl into small, tight  spaces and contort their bodies to reach parts and wiring. As a result, both developed deteriorating discs in their necks, which caused them pain whenever they were forced to swivel their heads too far to the left or right. So, their solution to the problem was NOT to turn their heads more than about 45 degrees to either side. Which meant that my dad did not, ever, turn his head to check behind him when driving. He always relied on his mirrors.

As you can imagine, this resulted in numerous fender benders. Anyone who parked their vehicle in the driveway at our house did so at their own risk, as my dad was notorious for backing into any vehicle parked there. In fact, I don't believe we owned a vehicle that hadn't been backed into by my dad at some time. That included my brother's "new" hand-me-down car, which had just been freshly painted - to his utter dismay. And of course, Dad refused to have it fixed, so my brother had to drive that dented car back to the University of Virginia and throughout graduate school.

Now maybe backing into cars isn't a funny thing in your house, but after it happens as often as it did in mine, you get to a point where you may as well laugh. The biggest laugh we ever got over my dad's backing-up antics, was when he backed over a VW Beetle. Oh yes, he did. Really.

Dad was heading home from work in East End Shops one afternoon. Just as he approached the exit, a train appeared down the line and the gates descended. As was typical for dad, he got just a little bit impatient waiting, so he flipped his car into reverse and backed up with only a quick glance in his mirrors. WHAM! BAM! The back end of his old Ford reared up and came to a sudden stop. Dad quickly hopped out of the car to see what had happened and was completely shocked when he found the back bumper of his car firmly planted against the windshield of a little VW Beetle.

Thankfully the driver of the tiny car was not injured, but the bug had definitely been no match for the big, heavy sedan my dad drove. From that day on we called Dad's car the "bug smasher."


This second tale I'll title, "Stiff Necks and Hay!" As I indicated above, both my dad and granddad had an aversion to swiveling their necks to look behind them. I can't remember my granddad ever backing over a tiny German auto, but he did back over my dad. Oh yes, he did. Really.

Granddaddy purchased the farm, where I was born and where my husband and I now live, in 1950. He raised  and sold Hereford beef cattle for additional income and as hedge against another depression. So, of course, hay had to be grown, cut, and baled to feed the cattle during the winter. Dad and his brother, and my brother and our boy cousins were enlisted to help with the hay. One hot summer, Grandaddy was driving his Ford 8N tractor, pulling the hay wagon, while my Dad picked up the square bales and handed them up to another helper on the trailer who stacked them neatly.

No one really knows why Granddaddy decided to back up with the tractor and trailer, but apparently he had his reasons - likely to get into a better position to reach the next row of hay bales. All they know for sure is that he started backing up without looking behind him. Unfortunately, my dad was standing just behind the trailer wheel, handing up a hay bale, when the tire rolled up over his boot and laid him down in the pasture. Of course, that precipitated much screaming and yelling, by my dad and all the other helpers, yelling that Granddaddy couldn't hear for the roar of the tractor. But thankfully, he stopped backing up of his own volition just about the time the tractor tire reached Dad's knee.

Once again, we were blessed that Dad was not seriously injured, as the thick carpet of pasture grass cushioned his leg so that the weight of the partially filled trailer did no major damage. Dad was left with a sore knee, which plagued him from time to time for the rest of his life, and a great story to tell on my Granddad.

Next time I'll tell you the tale of the hen and the pie pan.

Monday, August 1, 2016

Daydream Believer*


Do you ask "What if?" when others around you ask "What is?" Do you love to immerse yourself completely in a novel, contrary the demands of your family to do something productive? Do you long to become a dancer, musician, writer, poet, playwright, storyteller, or actor when everyone around you insists that you choose a career that is more practical? If so, then you, like me, are a dreamer raised by, and perhaps surrounded by, realists. And you understand how I feel.


For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to write and perform stories that entertain and engage people, bringing them into the worlds I create in my imagination. I used to round up all the neighbor kids and get them to dress up and put on "plays" for the stay-at-home moms who kindly handed over a nickle to see the shows we made for them. Those plays were mostly adlibbed flights of fantasy constructed willy-nilly by the kids as they went along, based on a loose interpretation of an idea we would discuss briefly before the production began.

Usually it was my idea, but not always, and everyone got to choose what character they would portray (often based on what sort of costume they wanted to wear). Clearly, with no structure or dialogue to follow, we never really knew where the play would go or when it would end. So we'd just keep on repeating some action, usually dancing - which primarily consisted of twirling around in long, colorful skirts we'd borrowed from our mother's closets, or random dialogue that may or may not have been connected to the very sketchy story line, until we all wound down and took a much anticipated curtain call.

When I was a young girl, my mother and father indulged me in this fanciful activity, feeling, I'm sure, that it could do no real harm to let me play and stretch my imagination, and likely thinking that it was simply a phase I would outgrow. The trouble was that I was a dreamer who would never outgrow my desire to tell the story of an exciting alternate reality and to want others to join me there. And while the little girl I used to be was encouraged to enjoy her fantasy, and the teenager I too soon became was allowed to participate in drama class and church plays, when it came time to choose a career path, that option was immediately eliminated. There was no question of college if my major were to be drama, or communications, or anything of the impractical sort, which would not result in a safe, secure job after graduation.

Being the "good girl" that I was, I followed the path my parents set out for me and chose a practical major that has served me well in the "safe and secure" department. On several occasions throughout my life, I've made forays into writing or acting, striving to reclaim that dream. And I have done so on a few occasions and for a little while; but for the most part, reality has always intervened and nipped that dream in the bud. Time and family pressures have wiped the shine off the dream and opportunities have been allowed to slip away. Unfinished manuscripts are stuffed into a closet to yellow and fade, and  the role of a lifetime is given up in favor of the role of wife and mother.

* With a wink and a nod to The Monkees, I am still a Daydream Believer, even though I have been unable to reach my dreams. I still keep thinking and hoping that one day...maybe one day...