Tag: Learning

Learning!

Learning is the process of acquiring new or modifying existing knowledge, behaviors, skills, values, or preferences. 

Evidence that knowledge has occurred may see changes in behavior from simple to complex, from moving a finger to skill in synthesizing information, or a change in attitude.

The ability to know possess by humans, animals, and some machines. There is also evidence of some kind of knowledge in some plants.

Some learn immediately, induced by a single event (e.g. being burn by a hot stove), but much skill and knowledge accumulate from repeat experiences.

The changes induced by knowledge often last a lifetime, and it is hard to distinguish known material that seems to be “lost” from that which cannot retrieve.

Definition of learning for Students
1: the act of a person who gains knowledge or skill Travel is a learning experience.
2: knowledge or skill gained from teaching or study. They’re people of great knowledge.
-@ilearnlot.

  • What are Motivational Problems?

    What are Motivational Problems?

    Many of my students frequently state in class or in written assignments: “I have no motivation” or “I need to get motivated.” Unfortunately, I find that many students do not understand the meaning of these statements. Actually, everyone is motivated. Educational researchers have found that many different patterns of beliefs and behaviors can limit academic success. Therefore, many different types of motivational problems can be identified in any group of students. Let’s look at five students who have diverse motivational problems (adapted from Stipek, 1998): Defensive Dimitri, Safe Susan, Hopeless Henry, Satisfied Sheila, and Anxious Alberto.

    Defensive Dimitri

    Dimitri is having difficulty in his first term in college and is beginning to doubt his ability to compete with other students in his classes. As a result, he puts his energy into preventing anyone from interpreting his poor performance as evidence of lack of ability. Basically, he appears to be more motivated to avoid failure than to succeed. Dimitri uses a number of failure-avoiding strategies, such as asking instructors several questions to give the impression that he is interested in the material, telling friends that he does not spend much time studying for exams when he really does, and spending time trying to find out what information appeared on tests in other sections of the same course. Unfortunately, the strategies he uses to avoid looking like a poor student prevent him from developing his academic abilities.

    Safe Susan

    Susan is a bright student with high SAT scores. However, she can be classified as an underachiever. Her primary goal is to attain high grades and recognition from her instructors. She is upset if she obtains any grade less than an A. She takes courses that offer little challenge and over studies for every test. Susan rarely reads anything that is not required in a course and does not allow herself to be challenged. She learns only what she is told to learn.

    Hopeless Henry

    Henry has a very negative opinion of his ability to do college work. He realized early in the term that he was having trouble understanding college textbooks and taking lecture notes. In fact, he has no study skills of which to speak. Henry does not attempt to seek help because he believes it is useless to try because nothing seems to work. When talking to friends, he constantly puts himself down. He sleeps late and misses many classes and finds himself falling further and further behind in his coursework.

    Satisfied Sheila

    Sheila is a likable student who enjoys college life. She joined a number of social organizations the first term in college and is a Cave rage student who could easily attain A grades. Sheila does not want to push herself and lets course work get in the way of having a good time. She is not worried about getting C grades and is especially satisfied with any grade that does not require much effort. Sheila enjoys reading novels and writes very well. In fact, she has submitted some of her poetry to her college literary magazine. Unfortunately, she does not apply her intellectual interests and abilities to her schoolwork.

    Anxious Alberto

    Alberto lacks self-confidence and is very anxious about academic tasks. He constantly worries about his performance on every test or assignment. His anxiety is so great that he forgets material on tests even though he prepares well. Alberto has trouble sleeping, constantly has stomachaches, and does not enjoy college.

    Each of these students has a different set of beliefs and perceptions that limit his or her present and possibly future academic success. All of these students have motivational problems. Defensive Dimitri doubts his ability and is concerned that others will not see him as capable. Safe Susan does not want to take any risks or challenge herself. She just cares about doing well. Hopeless Henry does not believe anything he does will make a difference in succeeding in college. He has learned to be helpless. Satisfied Sheila does not value her academic accomplishments. As a result, she chooses to spend her time and effort in nonacademic areas. Anxious Alberto wants to be a successful student. However, his constant worry causes considerable anxiety that interferes with his academic success. Do any of these students resemble anyone you know? As you read this chapter, think about how the content can help you better understand each of these students.

    After studying this Posts, you will be able to:

    Identify the factors that influence motivation.

    Assess your beliefs and perceptions to account for your own motivation.

  • The Gardenia Corsage

    The Gardenia Corsage

    “The Gardenia Corsage” story wrote By Edith Patterson Hill, Rockford, Illinois.

    My father was an astute observer of human character. Within seconds of meeting someone, he could sum up their strengths and flaws. It was always a challenge to see if any of my boyfriends could pass Dad’s test. None did. Dad was always right they didn’t pass my test either. After Dad died, I wondered how I’d figure it out on my own.

    That’s when Jack arrived on the scene. He was different from any other guy I’d dated. He could sit for hours on the piano bench with my mother, discussing obscure composers. My brother Rick loudly announced that Jack wasn’t a turkey like the other guys I’d brought home. My sister, Denise, belly-laughed with him over old Danny Kaye films. And Jack was great with my brother Chuck, who has a mental disability. One time, Chuck put his greasy hands, just dislodged from a cheeseburger, on Jack’s shoulders, kissed his cheek with ketchup-covered lips and called him by the wrong name, shouting, “Ah, Jeff, I Luv ya!” Jack didn’t miss a beat. “I love you too, George!” Jack passed my family’s test. But what about Dad’s?

    Then came the weekend of my mom’s birthday. Jack was coming down from his home in Milwaukee to Chicago. The day he was supposed to drive, I got a call: “Don’t worry,” he said, “but I’ve been in an accident.” His car had stalled; when he pulled over, another car careened into it. “I’m fine but I need you to pick me up.”

    Thank God he’s okay, I thought, as I drove up to Milwaukee. When I got there, we rushed to a flower shop for something for Mom. “How about gardenias?” Jack said, pointing out a beautiful white corsage.

    “You never see those this time of year,” I said. the florist put the corsage in a box.

    The entire ride, Jack was unusually quiet. “Are you all right?” I asked. We were pulling onto my mother’s street. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he said. “I might be moving.”

    Moving? When was he going to tell me this? After he packed?

    Then he added, “Moving in with you.”

    I nearly put the car on the sidewalk. “What?” I asked.

    “I think we should get married,” he said. He told me he’d planned his proposal for a fancy restaurant, but after the accident, he decided to do it right away. “Yes,” I whispered. We both sat stunned, tears running down our cheeks, unable to speak. I’d never known such a tender moment. If only Dad were here to give his final approval.

    “Oh, let’s just go inside,” Jack said, laughing. We got out of the car and he walked up the driveway, carrying the corsage. My mother opened the door. “Happy Birthday!” we shouted. Jack thrust the box at her. She opened it up. Suddenly, her eyes brimmed with tears. Jack and I looked at each other. “Mom, what’s wrong?” I asked.

    “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “this is only the second gardenia corsage I’ve ever received. I was given one year ago, long before you kids were born.”

    “From who?” I asked.

    “Your father,” Mom said. “He gave me one right before we were engaged.” My eyes locked on Jack’s as I blinked away tears. Dad’s test? I knew Jack had passed.

  • The Education of Ruby Dell

    The Education of Ruby Dell

    “The Education of Ruby Dell” story wrote By Ruby Bridges Hall, New Orleans, Louisiana

    In November 1960, I walked up the steps of William Frantz Public School in New Orleans, the first black student at the formerly all-white elementary school. Today I am married and a mother of four. Many years have passed since that historic day and today. Those years have brought incredible changes in our country, forged in the crucible of the civil rights movement and the battle to end segregation. Years that changed me as well.

    I was born in Mississippi in 1954, the oldest child of Abon and Lucille Bridges. That year the United States Supreme Court handed down its landmark decision ordering the integration of public schools. Not that I knew anything about school at the time. What I knew and loved was growing up on the farm my paternal grandparents sharecropped.

    It was a very hard life, though, and my parents heard there were better opportunities in the city. We moved to New Orleans, where my father found work as a service station attendant, and my mother took night jobs to help support our growing family.

    As I got a bit older, my job was to keep an eye on my younger brothers and sister, which wasn’t too difficult. Except for church and the long walk to the all-black school where I went to kindergarten, our world didn’t extend beyond our block. But that was about to change.

    Under federal court order, New Orleans public schools were finally forced to desegregate. In the spring of 1960, I took a test, along with other black kindergartners in the city, to see who would go to an integrated school come September. That summer my parents learned I’d passed the test and had been selected to start first grade at William Frantz Public School.

    My mother was all for it. My father wasn’t. “We’re just asking for trouble,” he said. He thought things weren’t going to change, and blacks and whites would never be treated as equals. Mama thought I would have an opportunity to get a better education if I went to the new school—and a chance for a good job later in life. My parents argued about it and prayed about it. Eventually, my mother convinced my father that despite the risks, they had to take this step forward, not just for their own children, but for all black children.

    A federal judge decreed that Monday, November 14, 1960, would be the day black children in New Orleans would go to school with white children. There were six of us chosen to integrate the city’s public school system. Two decided to stay in their old schools. The other three were assigned to McDonogh. I would be going to William Frantz alone.

    The morning of November 14 federal marshals drove my mother and me the five blocks to William Frantz. In the car one of the men explained that when we arrived at the school, two marshals would walk in front of us and two behind, so we would be protected on both sides.

    That reminded me of what Mama had taught us about God, that he is always there to protect us. “Ruby Nell,” she said as we pulled up to my new school, “don’t be afraid. There might be some people upset outside, but I’ll be with you.”

    Sure enough, people shouted and shook their fists when we got out of the car, but to me, it wasn’t any noisier than Mardi Gras. I held my mother’s hand and followed the marshals through the crowd, up the steps into the school.

    We spent that whole day sitting in the principal’s office. Through the window, I saw white parents pointing at us and yelling, then rushing their children out of the school. In the uproar, I never got to my classroom.

    The marshals drove my mother and me to school again the next day. I tried not to pay attention to the mob. Someone had a black doll in a coffin, and that scared me more than the nasty things people screamed at us.

    A young white woman met us inside the building. She smiled at me. “Good morning, Ruby Nell,” she said, just like Mama except with what I later learned was a Boston accent. “Welcome. I’m your new teacher, Mrs. Henry.” She seemed nice, but I wasn’t sure how to feel about her. I’d never been taught by a white teacher before.

    Mrs. Henry took my mother and me to her second-floor classroom. All the desks were empty, and she asked me to choose a seat. I picked one up front, and Mrs. Henry started teaching me the letters of the alphabet.

    The next morning my mother told me she couldn’t go to school with me. She had to work and look after my brothers and sister. “The marshals will take good care of you, Ruby Nell,” Mama assured me. “Remember, if you get afraid, say your prayers. You can pray to God anytime, anywhere. He will always hear you.”

    That was how I started praying on the way to school. The things people yelled at me didn’t seem to touch me. Prayer was my protection. After walking up the steps past the angry crowd, though, I was glad to see Mrs. Henry. She gave me a hug, and she sat right by my side instead of at the big teacher’s desk in the front of the room. Day after day, it was just Mrs. Henry and me, working on my lessons.

    Militant segregationists, as the news called them, took to the streets in protest, and riots erupted all over the city. My parents shielded me as best they could, but I knew problems had come to our family because I was going to the white school. My father was fired from his job. The white owners of a grocery store told us not to shop there anymore. Even my grandparents in Mississippi suffered. The owner of the land they’d sharecropped for 25 years said everyone knew it was their granddaughter causing trouble in New Orleans and asked them to move.

    At the same time, there were a few white families who braved the protests and kept their children in school. But they weren’t in my class, so I didn’t see them. People from around the country who’d heard about me on the news sent letters and donations. A neighbor gave my father a job painting houses. Other folks babysat for us, watched our house to keep away troublemakers, even walked behind the marshals’ car on my way to school. My family couldn’t have made it without our friends’ and neighbors’ help.

    And me, I couldn’t have gotten through that year without Mrs. Henry. Sitting next to her in our classroom, just the two of us, I was able to forget the world outside. She made school fun. We did everything together. I couldn’t go out in the schoolyard for recess, so right in that room, we played games and for exercise did jumping jacks to music.

    I remember her explaining integration to me and why some people were against it. “It’s not easy for people to change once they’ve gotten used to living a certain way,” Mrs. Henry said. “Some of them don’t know any better, and they’re afraid. But not everyone is like that.”

    Even though I was only six, I understood what she meant. The people I passed every morning as I walked up the school steps were full of hate. They were white, yet so was my teacher, who couldn’t have been more different from them. She was one of the most loving people I’d ever known. The greatest lesson I learned that year in Mrs. Henry’s class was the lesson Martin Luther King, Jr., tried to teach us all. Never judge people by the color of their skin. God makes each of us unique in ways that go much deeper.

    From her window, Mrs. Henry always watched me walk into the school. One morning when I got to our classroom, she said she’d been surprised to see me talk to the mob. “I saw your lips moving,” she said, “but I couldn’t make out what you were saying to those people.”

    “I wasn’t talking to them,” I told her. “I was praying for them.” Usually, I prayed in the car on the way to school, but that day I’d forgotten until I was in the crowd. Please be with me, I’d asked God, and be with those people too. Forgive them because they don’t know what they’re doing.

    “Ruby Nell, you are truly someone special,” Mrs. Henry whispered, giving me an even bigger hug than usual. She had this look on her face like my mother would get when I’d done something to make her proud.

    Another person who helped me was Dr. Robert Coles, a child psychiatrist who happened to see me being escorted through the crowd outside my school. Dr. Coles volunteered to work with me through this ordeal. Soon he was coming to our house every week to talk with me about how I was doing in school.

    Really, I was doing fine. I was always with people who wanted the best for me: my family, friends, and in school, my teacher. The more time I spent with Mrs. Henry, the more I grew to love her. I wanted to be like her. Soon, without realizing it, I had picked up her Boston accent.

    Neither of us missed a single day of school that year. The crowd outside dwindled to just a few protestors, and before I knew it, it was June. For me, first grade ended much more quietly than it began. I said good-bye to Mrs. Henry, fully expecting her to be my teacher again in the fall.

    But when I went back to school in September, everything was different. There were no marshals, no protestors. There were other kids—even some other black students—in my second-grade class. And Mrs. Henry was gone. I was devastated. Years later I found out she hadn’t been invited to return to William Frantz, and she and her husband had moved back to Boston. It was almost as if that first year of school integration had never happened. No one talked about it. everyone seemed to have put that difficult time behind them.

    After a while, I did the same. I finished grade school at William Frantz and graduated from an integrated high school. I went to business school and studied travel and tourism. For 15 years I worked as a travel agent. Eventually, I married and threw myself into raising four sons in the city I grew up in.

    I didn’t give much thought to the events of my childhood until my youngest brother died in 1993. For a time, I looked after his daughters. They happened to be students at William Frantz, and when I took them there every morning, I was literally walking into my past, into the same school that I’d helped to integrate years earlier.

    I began volunteering three days a week at William Frantz, working as a liaison between parents and the school. Still, I had the feeling God had brought me back in touch with my past for something beyond that. I struggled with it for a while. Finally, I got on my knees and prayed, Lord, whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing, you’ll have to show me.

    Not long after that, a reporter called the school. The psychiatrist Dr. Robert Coles had written a children’s book, The Story of Ruby Bridges; now everyone wanted to know what had happened to the little girl in the famous Norman Rockwell painting that had appeared in Look magazine. No one expected to find me back at William Frantz. Dr. Coles had often written about me, but this was the first book intended for children. To me, it was God’s way of keeping my story alive until I was able to tell it myself.

    One of the best parts of the story is that I was finally reunited with my favorite teacher, Barbara Henry. She reached me through the publisher of Dr. Coles’s book, and in 1995 we saw each other in person for the first time in more than three decades. The second she laid eyes on me, she cried, “Ruby Nell!” No one had called me that since I was a little girl. Then we were hugging each other, just like we used to every morning in first grade.

    I didn’t realize how much I had picked up from Mrs. Henry (I still have a hard time calling her anything else)—not only her Boston accent but her mannerisms too, such as how she tilts her head and gestures with her hands when she talks. She showed me a tiny, dog-eared photo of me with my front teeth missing that she’d kept all these years. “I used to look at that picture and wonder how you were,” she said. “I told my kids about you so often you were a part of my family.”

    We have stayed a part of each other’s lives ever since. It turns out that because of what I went through on the front lines of the battle for school integration, people recognize my name and are eager to hear what I have to say about racism and education today. I speak to groups around the country, and when I visit schools, Mrs. Henry often comes with me. We tell kids our story and talk about the lessons of the past and how we can still learn from them today especially that every child is a unique human being fashioned by God.

    I tell them another important thing I learned in first grade is that schools can be a place to bring people together kids of all races and backgrounds. That’s the work I focus on now, connecting our children through their schools. It’s my way of continuing what God set in motion all those years ago when he led me up the steps of William Frantz Public School and into a new world with my teacher, Mrs. Henry—the world that under his protection has reached far beyond just the two of us in that classroom.

  • Skunk on The Loose

    Skunk on The Loose

    “Skunk on The Loose” story wrote By Elizabeth Sherrill, Hingham, Massachusetts.

    It was a rustling in the woods that made me glance out the window beside my computer. At the edge of the trees, I caught sight of a skunk, his black-and-white pattern duplicating the dappled light. He seemed to be busy burrowing, maybe? My knowledge of skunks began and ended with their dreadful odor.

    The next moment, though, the animal emerged from beneath the trees and zigzagged across the lawn: plume-like tail, striped back and … where his head should have been, a bizarre-looking yellow helmet. As he came closer I saw what the “helmet” was: a plastic yogurt container.

    The cartoon struck a rock, and the creature whirled in another direction, only to bump up against our picnic table. For a second he stood still, shaking his head frantically. But the yogurt carton was wedged fast. The skunk charged blindly back into the woods.

    I stared at him in dismay. How long had he been running in darkness and terror?

    It would be the work of a second for me, I thought, to pull that thing off. But the idea of pursuing a skunk through the undergrowth kept me immobilized at the window. How would I ever catch him? And then what? Wouldn’t he spray me?

    I sat down and tried to pick up the thread of the story due in the mail that afternoon. But I could think only of an animal running till he dropped from exhaustion. Hadn’t this sort of thing happened before? Might animal experts know what to do?

    I dialed the local SPCA. “We only handle domestic animals,” the woman told me. “You want the Department of Wildlife.” She gave me a number in New Paltz, New York.

    By now the skunk was probably a long way off. Maybe someone else would see him. Someone braver and more athletic.

    I dialed the number in New Paltz. A man in the Department of Wildlife listened to my story, then held a muffled conversation. “If skunks can’t see you,” he said, “they don’t spray.”

    Well … that sounded all right, as long as the skunk’s head was inside the container. “What happens after the carton comes off?” I asked.

    “Make sure,” the man advised, “that he doesn’t feel threatened.”

    I wondered how one went about reassuring a terrified skunk.

    “You could throw a blanket over him,” the wildlife man suggested, “then run while he’s finding his way out.”

    “That might work,” I said, but I must have sounded as unsure as I felt because the man asked where I was calling from and began looking up names of conservation officers in my area.

    How long would it take, I wondered, for someone to get here? Where would the skunk be by then? I was gripped by a sudden strange urgency. I thanked the man, hung up and ran outside. Without stopping to change out of my next-to-best slacks, and forgetting about the blanket theory, I ran up our driveway to the road.

    Of course, the skunk wasn’t there. Nor did I know why I was. In his frenzy, when I had seen him last, the animal had been heading the opposite way, straight down the hill into the woods. But my feet never slowed. I turned left and dashed down the street as though rushing to a long-ordained appointment. I had run perhaps a hundred yards when a black-and-white streak emerged from the bushes beside the road and ran straight at me, the carton bumping the pavement with each step.

    I stopped and grabbed hold of the yogurt carton before the astonishment of finding the skunk hit me. The animal was tugging and twisting, unexpectedly strong, to get away. His front claws scrabbled against the slippery yellow plastic, his body strained backward, and still, he could not wrench free of the carton’s vise-like neck. It took both of my hands tugging the other way to hold on until a small black head suddenly popped free.

    And there we were, facing each other, two feet apart. I don’t know what he saw, and how threatening or not the apparition was, but what I saw was a sharp quivering nose, two small round ears, and alert black eyes that stared straight into mine.

    For fully 10 seconds we held each other’s gaze. Then the skunk turned, ran a few yards and vanished into a culvert that goes beneath the road. I stood there, looking after him. Three minutes could not have passed since I had hung up the telephone.

    But a timeless parable had played itself out, I thought as I headed back down the drive. The skunk was all those needs I hesitate to get involved in: Involvement takes time and I have deadlines to meet. I probably can’t do anything anyway. Somebody else can handle it better. Besides, involvement can be ugly, and the stench may rub off on me.

    And all these things, of course, may be true. But I’ve got a yellow pencil holder on my desk, a rather scratched and battered one, to remind me that every now and then God’s answer to a need is me.

  • The Last Tape

    The Last Tape

    “The Last Tape” Story wrote By Nan Pinkston, Stone Mountain, Georgia.

    The bustle of the hospital was a welcome distraction as I opened my new patient’s chart and headed for her room. My son, Eric, had just brought home a disappointing report card, and my daughter, Shannon, and I had argued again about her getting a driver’s license. For the next eight hours, I wanted to throw myself into helping people who I knew had much more to worry about than I did.

    Rebekah was only 32, admitted for chemotherapy after breast cancer surgery. When I entered her room it took me a moment to spot her amid the bouncing forms of three giggling little girls.

    I told Rebekah I would be her nurse and she introduced her husband, Warren; six-year-old Ruthie; four-year-old Hannah; and two-year-old Molly. Warren coaxed the girls away from their mother with a promise of ice cream and assured Rebekah they would return the next day.

    As I rubbed alcohol on her arm to prepare it for the intravenous line, Rebekah laughed nervously. “I have to tell you I’m terrified of needles.”

    “It’ll be over before you know it,” I said. “I’ll give you a count of three.”

    Rebekah shut her eyes tightly and murmured a prayer until it was over. Then she smiled and squeezed my hand. “Before you go, could you get my Bible from the table?” I handed her the worn book. “Do you have a favorite Bible verse?” she asked.

    “‘Jesus wept.’ John 11:35.”

    “Such a sad one,” she said. “Why?”

    “It makes me feel closer to Jesus, knowing he also experienced human sorrow.”

    Rebekah nodded thoughtfully and started flipping through her Bible as I shut the door quietly behind me.

    During the following months, I watched Rebekah struggle with the ravages of chemotherapy. Her hospital stays became frequent and she worried about her children. Meanwhile, I continued to contend with raising my own kids. They always seemed either out or holed up in their rooms. I missed the days when they were as attached to me as Rebekah’s little girls were to her.

    For a time, it had seemed Rebekah’s chemotherapy was working. Then doctors discovered another malignant lump. Two months later, a chest X-ray revealed cancer had spread to her lungs. It was terminal. Help me to help her through this, I prayed.

    One day when I entered her room, I found her talking into a tape recorder. She picked up a yellow legal pad and held it out to me. “I’m making a tape for my daughters,” she said.

    I read the list on her pad: starting school, confirmation, turning 16, first date, graduation. While I worried how to help her deal with death, she was planning for her children’s future.

    She usually waited until the early hours of the morning to record the tapes so she could be free from interruptions. She filled them with family stories and advice trying to cram a lifetime of love into a few precious hours. Finally, every item in her notes had been checked off and she entrusted the tapes to her husband.

    I often wondered what I would say in her place. My kids joked that I was an FBI agent, with my constant questions about where they’d been and who they’d been with. Where, I thought, are my words of encouragement and love?

    It was three o’clock one afternoon when I got an urgent call from the hospital. Rebekah wanted me to come immediately with a blank tape. What topic has she forgotten? I wondered.

    She was flushed and breathing hard when I entered her room. I slipped the tape into the recorder and held the microphone to her lips. “Ruthie, Hannah, Molly this is the most important tape.” She held my hand and closed her eyes. “Someday your daddy will bring home a new mommy. Please make her feel special. Show her how to take care of you. Ruthie, honey, help her get your Brownie uniform ready each Tuesday. Hannah, tell her you don’t want meat sauce on your spaghetti. She won’t know you like it separate. Molly, don’t get mad if there’s no apple juice. Drink something else. It’s okay to be sad, sweeties. Jesus cried too. He knows about sadness and will help you to be happy again. Remember, I’ll always love you.”

    I shut off the recorder and Rebekah sighed deeply. “Thank you, Nan,” she said with a weak smile. “you’ll give this one to them, won’t you?” she murmured, sliding into sleep.

    A time would come when the tape would be played for her children, but right then, after I smoothed Rebekah’s blanket, I got in my car and hurried home. I thought of how my Shannon also liked her sauce on the side and suddenly that quirk, which had annoyed me so many times, seemed to make her so much more precious. That night the kids didn’t go out; they sat with me long after the spaghetti sauce had dried onto the dishes. And we talked without interrogations, without complaints late into the night.

  • Grandma and The Paper Girl

    Grandma and The Paper Girl

    “Grandma and The Paper Girl” Story wrote By Ella Duquette, Syracuse, New York.

    I squinted against the afternoon sunshine, looking out the window for the paperboy. Ever since a stroke had weakened my legs I hadn’t been able to get around so well. I depended on the paper to keep me up to date with the world from which I often felt disconnected. When the paper came late, I got edgy. Finally, I saw someone coming down the street. A girl, no more than 10 or 11 years old, hurled a rolled-up newspaper toward my screen door. It landed with a thud.

    “Just a minute,” I called out the window. “where’s the usual carrier?”

    “I’m the carrier now, lady,” she said, hands on her hips.

    “Well, the old one used to bring the paper into me.”

    “Oh, yeah? well, I can do that.” She came in and plopped the paper onto my lap. I got a better look at her. Frayed shorts and a cropped top and it wasn’t even summered yet. She tossed back her shoulder-length red hair and blew a huge pink bubble.

    “I hate bubble gum,” I said.

    “Tough beans,” she said.

    I gasped. This snippy little thing needed to be taught some manners.

    “The children around here call me Mrs. Lee, after my late husband.”

    “Well, you can call me Kristin,” she said with a sassy tilt of her head, then bounded down the steps.

    Just what I need, I thought. nothing was easy anymore. Simple tasks like dusting and doing laundry were an ordeal these days. And baking, which I used to love, was far too much trouble. My husband, Lee, and most of my friends had passed on. Lately, I had found myself wondering why the Lord had left me behind. It was clear to me, anyway, that if young people today all acted like that smart-alecky paper girl, I had been too long in this world.

    Kristin’s attitude didn’t much improve over the following weeks. Still, I had to admit she never missed a day or forgot to bring the paper inside to me. She even took to sharing some small talk when she stopped by. She came in from a wicked rainstorm once and pulled the paper out from under her coat.

    “H of a day, huh, Gram?” she said, handing me the paper.

    I could feel the muscles in my jaw tense. “Do you talk like that just to shock me?” I asked. “And I’m not your grandmother.”

    “I just talk to all my friends.”

    “Not in this house, you don’t,” I shot back. “In my day you’d have your mouth washed out with soap.”

    She laughed. “you’d have some fight on your hands if you tried it, Gram,” she said.

    I threw up my hands. Why do I even bother with you? I wondered as she strutted down the street.

    But she started coming by after her paper route and other times as well, chitchatting happily about school, her friends. Each time she left it was as if a radio had been turned off. One day a bundle of newspapers slipped from her hands onto the floor and she uttered a dirty word. Instantly she clapped a hand over her mouth and said, “Oops! Sorry, Gram.”

    Well, she’s learned something, I thought, smiling secretly.

    I dug out some of my old photographs and outfits, thinking she might like to see them. She never tired of my stories of growing up on a farm, how we had raised our own food and washed our clothes by hand. All this girl needs is some pushing, I thought. Why else would she keep coming back when I was always fussing at her over her clothes or talk? God, is that why you’re keeping me around for Kristin?

    She showed me her report card when I asked one afternoon.

    “This is awful,” I said.

    “I do better than lots of kids,” she snapped.

    “You’re not ‘lots of kids.’ Have a little pride in yourself.”

    “Oh, Gram, you make such a big deal out of things,” she said. But I kept after her about her grades.

    A short time later Kristin gave up her paper route and shifted her visits to after school. I didn’t ask why she kept coming to see me because—though I wouldn’t have been caught dead admitting it her visits had become the highlight of my days.

    Once she told me, giggling, about some of her friends who had been shoplifting.

    “That’s nothing to laugh about, young lady,” I said. “Shoplifting is stealing, plain and simple.”

    “Well, I didn’t do it.”

    “All the same, you could be guilty by association. Your reputation goes with you all your life, you know.”

    “Oh, Gram, stop preaching.”

    “If you don’t like it, there’s the door,” I declared. But she didn’t leave. In fact, we spent more time together. Still, we had our moments. Like when she baked a cake, then sank down on a chair without laying a finger to the mound of dishes.

    “Come back here and clean up after yourself,” I ordered.

    “No way. I’m not putting my hands in that sink. It’s gross.” She had just polished her nails a ghastly purple.

    “Tough beans!” I blurted. She laughed. Mercy, I thought. Now I’m starting to talk like her. But she did the dishes that day and many another. I taught her how to bake fresh bread and my famous apple pie. It was wonderful to smell those familiar smells coming from the kitchen again.

    One Sunday Kristin stopped by. “You didn’t go to church dressed like that, did you?” I asked. She glanced at her shorts and t-shirt. “All the kids dress like this.”

    “I’ve told you before, Kristin, you’re not ‘all the kids.’”

    “Well, I suppose you think I should wear one of your old outfits, complete with hat and long white gloves!” she flounced out the door, only to come back a moment later. “I’m sorry, Gram,” she said, giving me a quick hug. “Forgive me?”

    How could I not? Making up with her seemed as natural as making up with one of my own daughters after a fight. Gradually, Kristin started dusting and cleaning up around the house, without the slightest hint from me. She even did my laundry. It chafed at my pride to let her do things I had done for myself all my life—but she was insistent. And this was the same girl who just a short while earlier wouldn’t put her hands in a sink of dirty dishes!

    “How about I set your hair?” she asked one day. “My mom taught me.”

    This was too much. “I’m not so old and helpless that I can’t take care of myself.”

    “Oh, don’t be so stubborn. Come on, Gram,” she wheedled. For the first time, that nickname didn’t annoy me. I gave in, and she proceeded to work several different lathery formulas into my short locks, not letting me look in a mirror until she was done. I had visions of my hair dyed the same awful purple as her fingernails. I was amazed to find it soft, shiny, and still blond. “You’re good at this,” I said, and Kristin beamed.

    I was even more impressed when, shortly after graduating from eighth grade, Kristin brought me a scrapbook filled with certificates of academic achievement.

    “See, I told you-your wasn’t like everybody,” I said, hugging her. “You’re special.” It was wonderful to see she valued my approval. But the best part was seeing she was pleased with herself.

    I still didn’t think much of her study habits. She insisted on keeping the television on when she did homework. I couldn’t fathom how she could concentrate with all that racket.

    But then there was a lot I couldn’t fathom about Kristin’s world. “Gram, do you know there are eight girls pregnant in the freshman class?” she told me. I gasped. “And that’s nothing,” she continued. “In some schools, they have police guards and metal detectors and just about everybody smokes, drinks and takes drugs.”

    I shuddered. It’s so different nowadays, Lord. How can I help her deal with all these things I know nothing about? Then I thought of how far Kristin had already come, and I knew the best thing I could do was to keep being there for her, as she always was for me.

    One evening Kristin brought over a cake mix. “I’m going to bake us a super-duper double-chocolate cake, Gram,” she announced.

    “No way,” I said. “Shortcuts won’t make a cake as good as from scratch.”

    “Oh, come on, Gram. it’s easier this way.”

    “Don’t ‘oh, Gram’ me, young lady. Easier isn’t always better and in this house” She broke into laughter the laughter I had come to know so well and in a moment, I joined in.

    Kristin shook her head and took my hand. “I don’t know what it is, Gram,” she said. “We hardly ever agree on anything and you make me so mad sometimes. But I always come back. I guess I must love you.”

    Who would have known that when I looked out the window for the paper carrier that afternoon five years ago I would end up finding my best friend?

  • A House for Katherine Red Feather

    A House for Katherine Red Feather

    “A House for Katherine Red Feather” story wrote By Robert Young, Bozeman, Montana

    Ten years ago, if you told me I’d give up the business I spent my life putting together to go build houses on Indian reservations instead, I’d have said you were nuts. the Seattle-based loungewear company I started with a partner was cranking out a profit. At 33, I had just married my longtime sweetheart, Anita. I wanted to slow down, have a family, savor life and the rewards of success.

    Then I saw that headline.

    I was in New Mexico on business and picked up a local paper called Indian Country. There it was on the front page, like an epitaph: “Elders Freeze to Death.” How could such a thing happen here in America, the richest country in the world? I tore out the article and stuck it in my pocket.

    That night in my hotel room, meetings done, I read the story again. it seemed so tragic. Somebody the government, the tribal council would no doubt do something to make sure it did not happen again. Still, I tucked the clipping into my briefcase instead of throwing it away. Why I had no idea.

    Two weeks later, another business trip. Another headline staring at me from the local paper. “Taos Woman Starts Adopt-A-Grandparent Program for Aging Native Americans.” According to the article, on reservations across the country, thousands of elderly native Americans struggled not just to make ends meet but simply to stay alive. At the end of the piece, there was a number of people interested in volunteering to call. I didn’t stop to think. I just picked up the phone and dialed.

    Soon I was matched with a “grandparent” Katherine Red Feather, of South Dakota’s Pine Ridge Reservation. I dropped her a note introducing myself. “I am 78 years old,” Katherine wrote back, “and blessed with thirteen children and seven grandchildren. I am so happy to learn I now have another grandchild! Do you have a wife and children of your own? I hope so, as they are one of the most wonderful gifts the Great Spirit can give a person in this life.”

    I told her about Anita, and how she was indeed a godsend. Then I asked Katherine if there was anything I could send her. “Yes,” she wrote. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would very much appreciate a bottle of shampoo and some aspirin. Thank you for your generosity, Grandson.”

    Grandson … Katherine was really taking this program seriously. But shampoo? Aspirin? Why wouldn’t she have such basic items? I decided to visit the reservation after my next business trip and look in on Katherine.

    Pine Ridge Reservation encompasses the two poorest counties in the United States. So the letter from the Adopt-A-Grandparent program had informed me. But I was not prepared for the reality of that poverty. Rutted dirt roads, dilapidated shacks, rusted-out automobiles with entire families living in them…. The dwellings I passed wouldn’t keep a person warm on a chilly fall night like this. In the Dakota winter, temperatures sometimes plunged to 60 degrees below zero. How could people freeze to death on a reservation? The answer was right before my eyes.

    Katherine’s “house” was a small, busted-up trailer pushed against the body of an old school bus. The trailer door opened and a delicate-looking woman wearing slacks and a simple patterned sweater emerged.

    “Grandson! Come in out of the cold.”

    The trailer was dark and barely big enough to turn around in, but the three people sitting by the wood stove stood when Katherine led me inside. “This is Robert,” she announced. “My new grandson. Robert, these are my children. They are your family now too.”

    Katherine must have seen my confusion. “The Great Spirit has chosen you to be a part of my life,” she told me. “We are one family in his eyes.” We sat down to a simple meal of white bread and beans heated on a propane stove.

    There was no running water, so Katherine needed to carry it from a well out back. it was next to an outhouse with a black flag flying overhead. “To scare away the rattlesnakes,” she explained. “They think it’s a hawk.” Katherine took such pains to make me feel at home that it was only at the end of my visit two days later that I could bring myself to ask her, “Isn’t it hard for you to have to fetch wood and water every day?”

    Katherine took my hands in hers. “I know how my life must look to you, Grandson, but all of us here live this way. I’m no different than anyone else.”

    I couldn’t stop thinking about Katherine once I got home to Seattle. The days grew shorter and colder. I looked out the window of my cozy apartment and imagined my new grandmother in that tiny trailer, huddled over her smoky little stove.

    “She needs to be in a place that will keep her warm,” I told Anita one night. “A place where the wind doesn’t blow through the chinks in the walls. Katherine needs a real house.”

    A real house. The moment those words left my lips, I knew what I had to do. At the end of that summer, I took two weeks off and went back to Pine Ridge. Anita and a handful of friends came with me. We were going to build Katherine a house. None of us had built so much as a doghouse before, but I figured that with a simple floor plan and plenty of enthusiasm, we could get the job done.

    Word got around the reservation. Dozens of Katherine’s neighbors and family members pitched in. Toward the end we worked round the clock, my car headlights trained on the site. Finally, the last nail was driven. Katherine’s tribal chairman said a prayer of thanks, and there was a big celebration. It was the first time Katherine had all her relatives together since the Red Feather clan had been divided and made to live on two different reservations years back. She welcomed them all into her house, her eyes brimming with tears of joy.

    Anita squeezed my hand, and I knew what we had done here was bigger than anything I could ever hope to achieve with my business. At last, I understood what Katherine meant about all of us being one family.

    Back in Seattle, I tried to concentrate on my work. Katherine would be safe and warm this winter. But what about all the neighbors who’d pitched in to build Katherine’s house, only to go home to ramshackle trailers? America has about two million tribal members, and some 300,000 of them are without proper homes. What about all those people?

    Building frame houses like we had done for Katherine was impossible. Too expensive and labor-intensive. I had to come up with a design that was warm, inexpensive and easy to build. A little research and I came across straw bale houses. Built from blocks of straw covered with stucco, they’re ideal for reservations. The straw is plentiful on the Great Plains and provides extremely effective insulation.

    Getting straw bale houses built on a large scale, though, would take the organization. A huge investment of time and energy. Time and energy I wouldn’t have if I kept my day job. I sold my half of the business and started a new venture, the Red Feather Development Group, to help native Americans get decent housing. Eventually, Anita and I moved to Bozeman, Montana, in the vicinity of half a dozen reservations.

    To think, none of this would have happened if I hadn’t seen those headlines 10 years ago. Even then I’d known someone would look after elders like my grandmother Katherine. I just never expected that person to be me. But that is how the Great Spirit works.

  • "Helped" A Dog Named Cheeseburger

    “Helped” A Dog Named Cheeseburger

    An inspiring story about a homeless man, his dog named Cheeseburger and how they helped one woman on a hot August day. The Story Wrote By Marion Bond West, Watkinsville, Georgia.

    “I couldn’t put my finger on why, exactly, but I had been feeling far away from God lately like he wasn’t really hearing me. A case of the spiritual blues, I guess. The sweltering heat didn’t help August here in Georgia can get pretty unbearable. It was 100 degrees today, and really sticky. I turned up the air conditioner in my car full blast, ready to head home from my errands. That’s when I saw the dog.

    He lay on top of a lumpy Army-green duffel bag right on the walk outside Applebee’s restaurant. No shade. Sleeping, or at least I hoped he was. Why he could be dead in this heat! I pulled in and found a parking spot. Then I hurried over to the dog. I bent down. “Hi, fella. You thirsty?”

    I love dogs and they like me. But this one he was medium-sized, black, graying around the muzzle opened one eye, then shut it and turned his head away from me. Deliberately. His tail didn’t budge.

    He had a collar, and by the way, he was guarding the duffel bag, I figured he was waiting for his owner, who was no doubt sitting inside the restaurant in air-conditioned comfort!

    I stormed into Applebee’s, ready to do battle. Right away, I spotted the owner. He sat alone at the counter, a tall glass of iced tea in front of him. Longish wavy blond hair and a goatee. Thin, like he didn’t always get enough to eat. He was wearing jeans that had seen better days, but they were clean, though his hands had what could have been faint paint stains. He seemed to sense me coming and turned on the stool to face me.

    “That your dog?” I demanded.

    “Yes, ma’am, he is.”

    “He’s in the sun and has no water. I imagine he’s hungry too.” I must have raised my voice because some people stared at me. “Dogs like me, but he wouldn’t even open both eyes when I spoke to him.”

    The man broke into a slow, easy grin. he slid off the stool. “That’s because he hasn’t been properly introduced to you. Come on. I’ll do the honors.”

    Introduced? I followed him outside.

    He squatted down next to the dog, who sat up and fastened his eyes onto his owner. His tail came alive.

    “Ma’am, I don’t know your name.”

    “Marion.” I bent close to them.

    “Marion, I’d like you to meet Cheeseburger. Cheeseburger, this nice lady is Marion.” The dog looked right into my eyes and offered a paw.

    I took it. “Hi, Cheeseburger,” I said.

    He licked my hand and his tail shifted into high gear.

    “And I’m Johnny,” the man said.

    “Johnny, I’m afraid he’s thirsty.”

    “Oh, he’s okay,” he said. “this spot was shady when I left him here just a few minutes ago.” Johnny picked up his duffel bag. “We’ve been together for nine years. See, his collar has my cell phone number on it, and he’s been vaccinated.” Johnny moved his bag beneath a Japanese maple tree and Cheeseburger settled down there beside it, in the shade.

    “How far do you live from here?” I asked.

    “Not far,” he said. “Back in those woods across the street. We have a good tent.”

    “But couldn’t you go to a shelter?”

    “They won’t take Cheeseburger, and I don’t go anywhere without him,” he said. Each time he said Cheeseburger, the dog’s tail flopped back and forth joyfully.

    “Johnny, I’m not going to be able to drive off without getting Cheeseburger some food and water,” I said. “It’s not you. It’s just, well, I have this thing about dogs…”

    “Okeydoke, if it’ll make you happy,” he said. “I’m going back in now and finish up my drink. It was nice to meet you, Marion.”

    I zipped into Walgreen’s and came back with a bowl, a big bottle of cold water, a small sack of dog food and a bone. Then I went in and fetched Johnny from the restaurant. “I thought you should be with me when I give the food and water to Cheeseburger,” I told him.

    “Okeydoke,” he said. Cheeseburger stood as Johnny and I approached. I set the food down and he nibbled at it mostly to be polite, I think. He did lap up quite a lot of water.

    “I guess he was thirsty,” Johnny said. “Thanks. I’m not going to start giving him bottled water, but don’t worry, I take really good care of him.”

    “And who takes care of you?” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them, and I knew they sounded sharper than I intended.

    Johnny didn’t seem to mind. “Here’s the way it works,” he said gently. “Every morning me and Cheeseburger step out of our tent and look up at the sky. And I say, ‘Lord, we belong to you. We trust you. Take care of us another day. Thank you.’ And then at night when we lie down to sleep, I look out at the stars and say, ‘We still trust you, God.’” He smiled again—that slow, easy grin.

    I smiled back. there was just something about his eyes I liked. “Maybe I’ll see you and Cheeseburger again sometimes,” I said.

    “Okeydoke. I and Cheeseburger come here or head over to McDonald’s most mornings. Then we walk down toward the post office. I’m a painter by trade, hoping to find some work.”

    There was a genuine peace about Johnny, even in the face of my unkind accusations.

    I fished around in my purse and found a twenty. “Could I give you this?” I asked hesitantly, not certain how to go about it.

    He didn’t reach for the bill, just kept looking at me with that contented expression. “You don’t have to. We’re doing pretty good.”

    “I’d like to. Very much.”

    “Then I thank you, Marion. God bless you.”

    I got back in my car and turned on the air conditioner. At the red light, I leaned forward and gazed up into the blue cloudless sky. “Lord, I belong to you. I trust you. Take care of me today. Thank you.”

    The light changed. I pulled out onto the highway, feeling refreshed, not so much by the cool air but by an unmistakable peace, the same peace I had seen in Johnny’s eyes.”

  • What are Interpersonal Skills and Their Types?

    What are Interpersonal Skills and Their Types?

    This may be the understatement of the year: right now there is an incredible need for engineers. All skill sets and experience levels are in high demand from start-ups to giant corporations, but that doesn’t mean that every engineer will be employed or successful.

    Interpersonal Skills also called Human Relations Skills, Interpersonal skills are often called “People Skills” because they describe a person’s ability to interact with other people in a positive and cooperative manner. Unlike technical skills that people attend school for, interpersonal skills are considered soft skills that are typically developed over time through interactions.

    Having good interpersonal skills is desired in most careers. The best members of a team often have strong skills that help them communicate and problem solve with other people in an organization. There is a long list of interpersonal skills, but among the most important for working in a team or workplace are conflict resolution, communication, problem solving and patience.

    Interpersonal skills in the thriving STEM fields, interpersonal skills are becoming increasingly important in career advancement. They are just as important as the technical skills, as they help create personal branding and a well-rounded network of professionals, opening opportunities and creating relationships with peers. Following are the five key interpersonal skills that engineers and other STEM professionals should develop for career success:

    Interpersonal Skills and Their Types

    (I) Communication Skills: Communication skills are required equally at all three levels of management. A manager must be able to communicate the plans and policies to the workers. Similarly, he must listen and solve the problems of the workers. He must encourage a free-flow of communication in the organization.

    Engineers and other STEM professions place the higher value on technical skills than communication. However, effective communication is equally as important. In order to succeed and be innovative in their position, they must be able to communicate their ideas.

    (II) Creativity Skills: The technical skills to find and fix system issues is just as valuable as the creativity to find new ways to solve problems. People who continually push the envelope to find and develop new products, processes etc., get the recognition from peers and management.

    (III) Adaptability Skills: Like creativity, the ability to continually push and change is invaluable. Challenges arise daily and as an employee and job seeker, you must be able to adapt, be creative, and communicate the issues to work towards a solution.

    The world of work is changing at an ever increasing pace so employers actively seek out graduates who can adapt to changing circumstances and environments, and embrace new ideas, who are enterprising, resourceful and adaptable.

    (IV) Collaboration Skills: Product creation, service execution, and system innovation do not happen by one person. Steve Jobs may have been an incredible driving force behind Apple’s success, but there were countless engineers, developers, and other professionals working to create, market and sell their products.

    Collaborating in a team setting is not only necessary for a job seeker and employee, but is absolutely essential. Collaborative skills that we have identified as promoting the core concepts and supporting class norms are listed below. This list of collaborative skills has been used successfully by instructional teams to identify skills that address the ways students and teachers should interact to realize class norms. The list is not exhaustive and some classrooms may have to add skills to fully meet their needs.

    (V) Leadership Skills: Leadership skills is the ability to influence human behavior. A manager requires leadership skills to motivate the workers. These skills help the Manager to get the work done through the workers.

    We all know what a leader is, however becoming one takes thought. If you aspire to make a difference in your company/ city/ the world in any profession, leadership skills have to come into play. Developing these skills over time as you build relationships will help you achieve success beyond your career.

    Advanced Interpersonal Skills

    Interpersonal Skills
    Human Relations Skills or Interpersonal Skills

    Advanced Interpersonal Communication training sessions can be custom designed to suit your employees, address specific issues and industry. Pictures, questions, and material will all be modified to suit training requirements and objectives. Contact our staff for more details.

    This Advanced Interpersonal Skills Session is designed to help your team members, management, and all staff communicate effectively with respect, build rapport, interact professionally and control their emotions for better business relations.

    Objectives for the Advanced Interpersonal Skills

    Being in control of your emotion is a benefit to you and your workplace. Learn how to be able to change your mood, attitude, and perception at the drop of a hat.

    Questioning techniques will assist you in both control and information gathering. Learn how to quickly change a subject, motivate others and communicate more effectively using communication techniques.

    Rapport is about similarities and connections. We show participants how to connect with others more with simple and effective mirroring techniques.

    Reading body language will come in use throughout your life. We develop this area and discuss how participants can take advantage of this form of communication.

    A positive mindset will move mountains. Everything will seem easier and you will feel empowerment with a positive outlook. Learn how to create the mindset for optimum performance and feel great when you need.

    More behavioral tools for the participants here as we develop some techniques to improve on existing behavior.

    learn about the four social categories and how to improve on your social category if you feel you need. We also discuss personalities and provide insight into why you do many of the things you do. This section also teaches you about others and their needs around you in the workplace.

    Advanced Interpersonal Communications are a requirement today to work closely as teams and with other people. This session is designed to carefully address any areas of concern and help individuals increase their awareness of their interpersonal skills, including any unintended communications they may be making. This session provides a greater understanding of non-spoken communication and allows a much-improved level of interpersonal communications to be implemented in the company, improving management to staff and interdepartmental relationships, which also leads to greater productivity, happier staff, and a much higher standard of customer service provision.

  • What are Managerial Skills?

    What are Managerial Skills?

    Managerial Skills; A skill is an individual’s ability to translate knowledge into action. Hence, it is manifested in an individual’s performance. Skill is not necessarily inborn. It can be developed through practice and through relating learning to one’s own personal experience and background. In order to be able to successfully discharge his roles, a manager should possess three major skills. These are conceptual skill, human relations skill and technical skill. Conceptual skill deals with ideas, technical skill with things and human skill with people. While both conceptual and technical skills are needed for good decision-making, human skill in necessary for a good leader.

    The conceptual skill refers to the ability of a manager to take a broad and farsighted view of the organization and its future, his ability to think in abstract, his ability to analyze the forces working in a situation, his creative and innovative ability and his ability to assess the environment and the changes taking place in it. It short, it is his ability to conceptualize the environment, the organization, and his own job, so that he can set appropriate goals for his organization, for himself and for his team. This skill seems to increase in importance as manager moves up to higher positions of responsibility in the organization.

    The technical skill is the manager’s understanding of the nature of the job that people under him have to perform. It refers to a person’s knowledge and proficiency in any type of process or technique. In a production department, this would mean an understanding of the technicalities of the process of production. Whereas this type of skill and competence seems to be more important at the lower levels of management, its relative importance as a part of the managerial role diminishes as the manager moves to higher positions. In higher functional positions, such as the position of a marketing manager or production manager, the conceptual component, related to these functional areas becomes more important and the technical component becomes less important.

    Human relations skill is the ability to interact effectively with people at all levels. This skill develops in the manager sufficient ability (A) to recognize the feelings and sentiments of others; (B) to judge the possible actions to, and outcomes of various courses of action he may undertake; and (C) to examine his own concepts and values which may enable him to develop more useful attitudes about himself. This type of skill remains consistently important for managers at all levels.

    A table gives an idea about the required change in the skill-mix of a manager with the change in his level. At the top level, technical skill becomes least important. That is why people at the top shift with great ease from one industry to another without an apparent fall in their efficiency. Their human and conceptual skills seem to make up for their unfamiliarity with the new job’s technical aspects.

    A Table of Skill-Mix of different Management levels and Managerial Skills

    Different Management levels

    Explanation of Managerial Skills

    (I) Conceptual skills: Conceptual skills are skills that allow a person to think creatively while also understanding abstract ideas and complicated processes. A person who has conceptual skills will be able to solve problems, formulate processes and understand the relationship between ideas, concepts, patterns and symbols.

    Conceptual skills are used frequently in the business world where managers can use their ability to conceptualize to view and visualize the entire company that they work for in order to develop the best plans for the business’s success. Most companies consider conceptual skills to be a requirement for their management staff.

    Conceptual Skills
    Conceptual Skills

    Some people are born with conceptual skills and have an intuitive sense while others must acquire the skill through learning. Other common skills valued with conceptual thinking include critical thinking, implementation thinking, innovative thinking and intuitive thinking.

    For those individuals who are not born with an innate sense of these skills, there are ways to develop the skill set. In an individual’s personal life and professional life, these skills can be developed by first taking the time to look around. Observing the way that other people and other businesses implement strategies as well as reading related publications (in the individual’s field or hobby area) can help increase the range of possibilities a person sees. Then, an individual must be willing to change direction and to pursue new goals whenever an opportunity arises that makes sense. If a problem occurs, do not look for the simple and fast fix. Look for a lasting solution instead that is a best-case scenario.

    (II) Human Relations Skills: Human Relations Skills is Interpersonal skills, Interpersonal skills are often called “people skills” because they describe a person’s ability to interact with other people in a positive and cooperative manner. Unlike technical skills that people attend school for, interpersonal skills are considered soft skills that are typically developed over time through interactions.

    Interpersonal Skills
    Human Relations Skills or Interpersonal Skills

    Having good interpersonal skills is desired in most careers. The best members of a team often have strong skills that help them communicate and problem solve with other people in an organization. There is a long list of interpersonal skills, but among the most important for working in a team or workplace are conflict resolution, communication, problem solving and patience.

    (III) Technical Skills: Technical skills are a person’s abilities that contribute directly to the performance of a given job, such as the computer, engineering, language and electrical skills. Someone with excellent abilities in any of these technical areas has the potential to secure a career in a related field.

    Technical Skills
    Technical Skills

    A person with technical writing abilities may get a job creating instruction manuals for complex products and equipment. A data expert may get a specialized job in database management or data analysis. A person with crafting abilities may get a job assembling fabrics or other products. Someone with excellent skills in automobile mechanics may get a position in an automobile repair shop.

    Other Managerial Skills also Important

    Communication Skills: Communication skills are required equally at all three levels of management. A manager must be able to communicate the plans and policies to the workers. Similarly, he must listen and solve the problems of the workers. He must encourage a free-flow of communication in the organization.

    Administrative Skills: Administrative skills are required at the top-level management. The top-level managers should know how to make plans and policies. They should also know how to get the work done. They should be able to coordinate different activities of the organization. They should also be able to control the full organization.

    Leadership Skills: Leadership skill is the ability to influence human behavior. A manager requires leadership skills to motivate the workers. These skills help the Manager to get the work done through the workers.

    Problem Solving Skills: Problem-solving skills are also called as Design skills. A manager should know how to identify a problem. He should also possess an ability to find the best solution for solving any specific problem. This requires intelligence, experience and up-to-date knowledge of the latest developments.

    Decision Making Skills: Decision-making skills are required at all levels of management. However, it is required more at the top-level of management. A manager must be able to take quick and correct decisions. He must also be able to implement his decision wisely. The success or failure of a manager depends upon the correctness of his decisions.