Bracket the Problem

 

Tom "being nice" to Blue.

Tom Nehil helps with the oxen classes at Tillers and we've worked together for a few years now in that capacity. While adjusting an Oliver 99 plow (How fine a "99" is as a walking plow will surely be the subject of another tale), Tom mentioned that - as a structural engineer- he recommended that we "bracket the problem:" adjust it too far one way, then the other. Once we had the limits, we could fine tune the middle. The simplicity of the idea struck me and I started employing it in other places.

At school, I teach kids to use 'bracketing' when problem solving or estimating. Kids who have me for multiple classes probably grow weary of the story, but I don't. Lucky them, eh?

Recently, we trained chickens in our psychology class. Amazingly, with nothing but positive reinforcement, the chickens learn- in one class period- to peck a green 'X,' while ignoring a green circle. That got me thinking about the limits of positive reinforcement.

I'm not describing it fully here, but reinforcements make behaviors continue or increase. Punishments make behaviors decrease or stop.  

I'm still not describing it fully here, but please stop calling punishments 'negative reinforcements.' They are NOT synonyms. (Also another tale for another day.)

I often tell students- both high school psych students and adult oxen driving students- that you should aim for 90% positive reinforcements and 10% punishments, although, like Mike Mulligan, I "had never been quite sure that this was true."

Monday, I yoked up Brutus and Cassius to move a little compost. I decided to emphasize the reinforcements and count them, while minimizing- and counting- the punishments. I hoped to hit the 90% mark.

I lost count.  

All was not lost, though, as I was also keeping track of how many times I touched the animals with the stick in order to direct them. 

Taps to start walking? Count them. Taps to stop? Count them. Taps for Gee and Haw? Count them. You get the idea.

Brushes for positive reinforcement? They don't count. They are reinforcements, designed to increase desirable behaviors. They aren't directions or punishments. Instead, they are reinforcements if they happen directly after, or during, a desired behavior. If they aren't related to a behavior, they are just called "being nice."  

Two trips around the yard with the cart, stopping multiple times, pivoting 180 degrees twice, standing to load and unload, sidestepping, yoking, unyoking. About 45 minutes total. The total number of taps? 

Zero.  

Lots of brushing. Lots of praise. But zero physical punishment or tactile direction. I did punish them four times. I barked a command to "head up!" when they were dropping their heads while standing. Since the behavior stopped, it's called a punishment. A mild one to be sure, but I still noted it. . . like a psych teacher would.

I'll keep trying to push the limits toward reinforcements. And, come to think of it, I think I'll avoid the other end of the 'bracket' altogether. I'd suggest you do the same. See how many flies you can catch with honey. . .

Flutterbys: The Return

Funny things happen when you let furniture makers build yokes. . .

One of my favorite inclusions in a table top or a large panel is a "butterfly key." Intended to stop or prevent a split, they are usually about a half an inch thick and oriented across the grain of the panel.  Scribe the outline of the butterfly, chisel out the waste, then press or pound in the butterfly with glue or epoxy. That’s the basic gist of it, although there are a couple of tricks: drilling a small area at the bottom of the hole for excess glue to pool and beveling the edges so the butterfly fits more like a cork in a bottle are just two.

I got the idea to use butterflys on a yoke when I brought the mostly-finished, big elm yoke in to the basement woodshop and the super-dry air encouraged a large check. The butterflys looked pretty, but I wasn’t sure how long they would last.

After nearly 2 years and a lot working hours, I can absolutely report that

butterflys work in a yoke. In particularly dry weather you can see the check enlarge around the butterflies, while in the summer months the check nearly disappears. I can't imagine the yoke surviving this long without the keys.

I don’t know if there’s a perfect wood species for making butterflies. The cherry ones are a nice contrast with the elm and the hickory one looks like a bit of a mismatch. Let aesthetics be your guide if you like, but "pretty is as pretty does" in this case. 

A Pandemic Story

 “Never let a good crisis go to waste”- Winston Churchill

I'm up early and getting around to teach Oxen Driving at Tillers. It's one of my favorite, annual signs of spring.  One year ago, it was the last thing I did before the pandemic shut most everything down.  

It was hard. All of it. I'll spare you those details. You've got your own.

But, a year on from that weekend, my oxen are in much better shape than they were last march. As a driver, so am I. Not a little better in either case. Twice as good. Enough so that I am a little embarrassed about how bad we were then- and I would have said we were pretty good at that time.

What made the difference? Time for sure.  Tom Jenkins told me, "There's not too many problems that can't be fixed with more time in the yoke." The other x-factor is commitment to getting better. What Angela Duckworth calls "grit." Not some magical quality of internal drive, but more like dripping water that eventually wears away stone. The recognition that, with time and incremental progress, we'll get better- because it's important.

We still have our bad days, but dragging the pasture last night with Brutus back from a foot injury, they were good enough that it felt like cheating. I wasn't driving them, just working alongside them. In the state that Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi calls "flow."

Churchill may have been on to something. What's your story?

Remind me to. . .

I often ask Cara, "remind me to . . ." The ellipses could be replaced with anything from "pick up The Half Blood Prince from the library" to "close the garage door."  

She does. Right then. It's our joke. Then I forget to do the task.
  

Why do I mention it? I'm making a new 11-inch yoke from laminated yellow pine.  And I wonder how long it takes to make a yoke, start-to-finish.

I know a couple of things: 1. Dave Kramer demonstrated yoke-making last summer when I helped teach Oxen Basics and, man, is he fast. Jimmy Johns fast. 2. Most people estimate that tasks will take half as long as they do. Really. We'd never start them otherwise.

So far, I took about 45 minutes to lay out the pattern on the first

section. I was working slowly and adjusting the template dimensions and shape a bit as I went. 

Next, each of the center three sections took 10 minutes to cut out with my very sweet Festool jigsaw. (standard MODA Blog disclaimer: I bought it at retail and get no kickback. And it's still sweet).  Add 10 more minutes to move sawhorses, etc. and I have less than 1.5 hours so far.

Remind me to keep a running total of the time.

But don't do it right now. I'll forget.

The jigsaw leaves a smoooooth finish.

Good TV

 If you watch enough good TV*, you'll come across the same few teams of oxen.  When you think about it, it's little wonder. Hollywood doesn't need 100 teams in any given season, so the same animals work in a number of contexts.  

Luke Conner told me that he prefers solid color animals for movie work, since they can easily be 're-used' in multiple shots. I told him that I always joke with my high school students that his oxen were traitors: They clearly fought on both sides in the American Revolution- sometimes pulling British Wagons, others Continental farm equipment in the show Turn: Washington's Spies. Using black Swiss-Holstein crosses made it an unlikely catch by most viewers used to bad TV**.

This fact stood out as I watched some of M*A*S*H*, Season 5 on Hulu.  Within the first few episodes, the same ox was working both as a single and in a span. With multiple owners. The traitor.

At least M*A*S*H* now qualifies as good TV. What else do you watch that qualifies as Good TV?

*  Good TV: TV with Oxen featured regularly.
** Bad TV: TV without Oxen featured regularly

Hay Staging

 All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

              -William Shakespeare As You Like it

When words act as multiple parts of speech, I get excited. This week we staged some round bales. "Staged," as in placed them in position to be fed later. But to keep them off the ground and make unwrapping the net easier, we placed them on a "stage," in this case, a pallet.

A lucky guess on where the flat spot would land.

It's a fun task to "stage" round bales- with all that hooking and unhooking.  The basic set of steps is this:

1. Pull the stone boat up next to the bale (in this case, the bales had a flat spot, so we judged where the boat needed to be to have the bale land correctly.

2. Hook a hay hook into the netting and run a chain over the bale.

3. Move the team so they are oriented perpendicularly to the stone boat.

4. Link an additional chain onto the "hook chain" and hitch it to the yoke.

5. Take just enough steps to roll the bale on to the boat. (Normally, I like to leave the bale with the axis pointing skyward right on the stone boat and feed it like that, but it does tie up the stone boat for the next few days and it means you can only move one bale at a time.)

5. Pull the bale to the staging area. (In our case, next to the pasture fence. We peel and feed hay 2x a day.)

6. Throw a pallet down behind the stoneboat.

7. Repeat steps 1-5 to roll the bale up onto the pallet. (In this case, the axis is skyward, making unwrapping easier)

8. Hook to the stone boat and go back for another.

Like I said, lots of hooking and unhooking.  Half the time the team hooks they have a heavy pull, as they are pulling the bale and the boat. The other half, they are flopping a bale, which I could realistically do myself.  That's nice. It makes the team pull "gently," no matter what.

. . . And if the senior Senator from Vermont offers to help, let him.

Penguin Walking

 

Looks fine.  So does a mine field.

When I was in my middle-20's, like everyone else, I knew I was invincible. But an icy trip to the mailbox did its best to disabuse me of that notion. I can still see it in slow motion: One minute I was up. The next, I was down in a heap. All that was missing was the Wile E. Coyote swirls in the air as my feet, no doubt, reached shoulder height.

This time of year, I'm likely to heed to warnings to "walk like a penguin" on the ice. (See diagram)

As a result, I'm always reluctant to get the boys out when it's icy. The catastrophic costs simply outweigh the benefits.  (Warning: the story at this link is gut-wrenching .) Yesterday, though, we were in that grey area between penguin walking weather and skip-to-the-mailbox weather. The ice had mostly cleared, but the lack of snow had frozen the ground just below the surface. Most places were fine, but the few slight slopes were sketchy at best.

As a result, everyone got a lead rope to the hitching post and back. Taking a chance at Zeus's natural exuberance seemed foolhardy. Walking up and down the slopes and on the icier areas, I walked directly in front of the team to keep the pace indolent. We skipped hauling out a round bale, knowing that they'd need to dig in and pull and we'd be walking at a good clip to do that.  

Live to fight another day.  Last evening's snow appears to have insulated the ground enough to thaw the frozen layer, but I'll walk out like a penguin before getting the boys.