LITMIR.BIZ

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for Mrs. Martin. She was a kind and patient woman. She always said that Mike and I reminded her of her two grown sons. Although kind, she believed in hard work and kept us moving. We spent three hours taking canned goods off the shelves, brushing each can with a feather duster to get the dust off, and then re-stacking them neatly. It was excruciatingly boring work.

      Mike’s dad, whom I call my rich dad, owned nine of these little superettes, each with a large parking lot. They were the early version of the 7-Eleven convenience stores, little neighborhood grocery stores where people bought items such as milk, bread, butter, and cigarettes. The problem was that this was Hawaii before air-conditioning was widely used, and the stores could not close their doors because of the heat. On two sides of the store, the doors had to be wide open to the road and parking lot. Every time a car drove by or pulled into the parking lot, dust would swirl and settle in the store. We knew we had a job as long as there was no air-conditioning.

      For three weeks, Mike and I reported to Mrs. Martin and worked our three hours. By noon, our work was over, and she dropped three little dimes in each of our hands. Now, even at the age of nine in the mid-1950s, 30 cents was not too exciting. Comic books cost 10 cents back then, so I usually spent my money on comic books and went home.

      By Wednesday of the fourth week, I was ready to quit. I had agreed to work only because I wanted to learn to make money from Mike’s dad, and now I was a slave for 10 cents an hour. On top of that, I had not seen Mike’s dad since that first Saturday.

      “I’m quitting,” I told Mike at lunchtime. School was boring, and now I did not even have my Saturdays to look forward to. But it was the 30 cents that really got to me.

      This time Mike smiled.

      “What are you laughing at?” I asked with anger and frustration.

      “Dad said this would happen. He said to meet with him when you were ready to quit.”

      “What?” I said indignantly. “He’s been waiting for me to get fed up?”

      “Sort of,” Mike said. “Dad’s kind of different. He doesn’t teach like your dad. Your mom and dad lecture a lot. My dad is quiet and a man of few words. You just wait till this Saturday. I’ll tell him you’re ready.”

      “You mean I’ve been set up?”

      “No, not really, but maybe. Dad will explain on Saturday.”

      Waiting in Line on Saturday

      I was ready to face Mike’s dad. Even my real dad was angry with him. My real dad, the one I call the poor one, thought that my rich dad was violating child labor laws and should be investigated.

      My educated, poor dad told me to demand what I deserve—at least 25 cents an hour. My poor dad told me that if I did not get a raise, I was to quit immediately.

      “You don’t need that damned job anyway,” said my poor dad with indignation.

      At eight o’clock Saturday morning, I walked through the door of Mike’s house when Mike’s dad opened it.

      “Take a seat and wait in line,” he said as I entered. He turned and disappeared into his little office next to a bedroom.

      I looked around the room and didn’t see Mike anywhere. Feeling awkward, I cautiously sat down next to the same two women who were there four weeks earlier. They smiled and slid down the couch to make room for me.

      Forty-five minutes went by, and I was steaming. The two women had met with him and left 30 minutes earlier. An older gentleman was in there for 20 minutes and was also gone.

      The house was empty, and here I sat in a musty, dark living room on a beautiful sunny Hawaiian day, waiting to talk to a cheapskate who exploited children. I could hear him rustling around the office, talking on the phone, and ignoring me. I was ready to walk out, but for some reason I stayed.

      Finally, 15 minutes later, at exactly nine o’clock, rich dad walked out of his office, said nothing, and signaled with his hand for me to enter.

      “I understand you want a raise, or you’re going to quit,” rich dad said as he swiveled in his office chair.

      “Well, you’re not keeping your end of the bargain,” I blurted out, nearly in tears. It was really frightening for me to confront a grown-up.

      “You said that you would teach me if I worked for you. Well, I’ve worked for you. I’ve worked hard. I’ve given up my baseball games to work for you, but you haven’t kept your word, and you haven’t taught me anything. You are a crook like everyone in town thinks you are. You’re greedy. You want all the money and don’t take care of your employees. You made me wait and don’t show me any respect. I’m only a little boy, but I deserve to be treated better.”

      Rich dad rocked back in his swivel chair, hands up to his chin, and stared at me.

      “Not bad,” he said. “In less than a month, you sound like most of my employees.”

      “What?” I asked. Not understanding what he was saying, I continued with my grievance. “I thought you were going to keep your end of the bargain and teach me. Instead you want to torture me? That’s cruel. That’s really cruel.”

      “I am teaching you,” rich dad said quietly.

      “What have you taught me? Nothing!” I said angrily. “You haven’t even talked to me once since I agreed to work for peanuts. Ten cents an hour. Hah! I should notify the government about you. We have child labor laws, you know. My dad works for the government, you know.”

      “Wow!” said rich dad. “Now you sound just like most of the people who used to work for me—people I’ve either fired or who have quit.”

      “So what do you have to say?” I demanded, feeling pretty brave for a little kid. “You lied to me. I’ve worked for you, and you have not kept your word. You haven’t taught me anything.”

      “How do you know that I’ve not taught you anything?” asked rich dad calmly.

      “Well, you’ve never talked to me. I’ve worked for three weeks and you have not taught me anything,” I said with a pout.

      “Does teaching mean talking or a lecture?” rich dad asked.

      “Well, yes,” I replied.

      “That’s how they teach you in school,” he said, smiling. “But that is not how life teaches you, and I would say that life is the best teacher of all. Most of the time, life does not talk to you. It just sort of pushes you around. Each push is life saying, ‘Wake up. There’s something I want you to learn.’”

      20 YEARS AGO TODAY...

      THE CONE OF LEARNING

      Edgar Dale gets credit for helping us to understand that we learn best through action—doing the real thing or a simulation. Sometimes it’s called experiential learning. Dale and his Cone of Learning tell us that reading and lecture are the least effective ways to learn. And yet we all know how most schools teach: reading and lecture.

      What is this man talking about? I asked myself. Life pushing me around was life talking to me? Now I knew I had to quit my job. I was talking to someone who needed to be locked up.

      “If you learn life’s lessons, you will do well. If not, life will just continue to push you around. People do two things. Some just let life push them around. Others get angry and push back. But they push back against their boss, or their job, or their husband or wife. They do not know it’s life that’s pushing.”

      I had no idea what he was talking about.

      “Life pushes all of us around. Some people give up and others fight. A few learn the lesson and move on. They welcome life pushing them around. To these few people, it means they need and want to learn something. They learn and move on. Most quit, and a few like

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