When I was in high school, I didn’t have an actual curfew. My folks expected me to get home at a reasonable hour. I self-imposed a midnight curfew, since that was the curfew most of my friends had. Back in those days, the national speed limit was 55 mph. I was out and about on a Friday night and lost track of time. It was 11:45 and I was 30 minutes from home. Even though my curfew was self-imposed, I didn’t want to break it, so I headed home – definitely exceeding the 55 mph speed limit! As I drove home through hilly northern Missouri, the road crossed a river bottom – approximately a mile of straight, flat road. I stepped down on the gas even more – 351 cubic inches of 1978 F250 screamed to life (351 CI = 5.7 L)! As I crossed that river bottom, a swarm of June Bugs were flying over the road. As I went through them, the sound of those bugs splattering on my windshield sounded like a machine gun.
I made it home safely and was only a couple of minutes late. The next morning, after breakfast, Dad and I had some hay to rake and bale, so we jumped into my pickup to headed to the hayfield. As Dad sat in the passenger seat, he noticed the bugs on the windshield. Pointing to them, he said, “That’s a 90 mile-an-hour bug! What the @%$# were you doin’ goin’ 90 miles-an-hour?” He had me. His speed estimate was bull’s-eye accurate. I hesitated because it thoroughly impressed me how accurate he had called it. That’s when it dawned on me.
“Dad, how do you know that’s a 90 mile-an-hour bug?”
He studied me for a few seconds. “We’re burnin’ daylight. We got work to do.”
I’m reminded of a Will Rogers quote: “Good judgment comes from experience. Most experience comes from bad judgment.” There’s always a lesson to be learned, whether something works out well or works out poorly. I have had the blessing of some amazing mentors, many of whom served as president of AABP – some true cattle veterinarian legends. One of the things I admired most about these mentors is that they were not afraid to share their mistakes.
Dr. Sjeklocha and grandson Tate
As I listened to Dr. Capel’s address at the business luncheon during the Annual Conference, I appreciated his story about an interaction with a younger veterinarian: “Trying to achieve perfection can also impact how others view you. When I was a student and young practitioner, I looked up to my mentors, the ‘giants’ of our profession and even my close colleagues and I felt so intimidated, so inadequate, and so insecure about my own abilities. All I saw was the success that they had achieved. What I didn’t see was the long list of struggles, failures and hard work that all of them had put in along the way. We all like to talk about our success, but we need to be more comfortable talking about our failures. That is how we help others learn, how we establish a culture of openness and creativity and how we become relatable. A few years ago, a very accomplished but younger vet shared a story with me. She shared about her experience riding with me as a student and being too intimated to talk and interact with me because of my successes. That was one of the lowest moments of my life. I was devastated, because in trying to hide my insecurities, I projected a completely different facade. You never know how the world sees you. I still see myself as a new graduate with more questions than answers. This person saw me as an accomplished practitioner who was intimidating and unapproachable. That experience forever changed the way I interact with students, other practitioners and even my own children. And I have been much the better for it.”
As mentors, not only should we share our pearls of wisdom, but we should also share what those experiences were that helped us to arrive at those conclusions. Like Dr. Capel, I was very blessed with some amazing mentors, who were willing to share their “non-success” stories. I have also been blessed with some amazing mentees, from whom I am certain I learned way more than they learned from me. So, I challenge you seasoned practitioners to share the bad with the good, and to you younger practitioners, if you are ever presented with a “90 mile-an-hour bug,” don’t be afraid to ask, “How do you know?”
