|
During 1970 and 1971, ESF designed a new training system for Humble Oil and Refining Company. ESF's overall design incorporated all the elements of the instructional systems design model in its approach to training key Humble personnel. Basically, ESF implemented a series of "performance-based" training institutes that enabled each task force to learn and utilize new skills while under the supervision of ESF personnel. The Humble task forces then, over a six-month period, developed their own training program, Skills Training Improvement Program (STIP), under the guidance of ESF.
A Step Beyond...
It was the first day of the Workshop. EXXON executives and key trainers from Baton Rouge and Houston had gathered the night before at the not-yet-infamous Watergate Hotel in Washington, D.C. It was not necessary for Peter to stay there since we lived in one of the close-in Washington bedroom communities. We had planned to take our three-year old daughter, Jeanne, to her baby-sitter and then head into Washington. What we had not planned on was the ice storm that wreaked havoc on the entire Atlantic seaboard.
The morning of the workshop, we rose early. Snow had been forecast, so we checked outside. It didn't look too bad, just a dusting on the streets and sidewalks. In fact, it looked quite beautiful with little ice cycles hanging from every branch. The rising sun created a sparkling glittering wonderland. Peter watched cars creeping past our house. He went outside, turned the car on to warm it up for us, then scraped off the windows. Mary packed Jeanne into her snowsuit and handed her over to Peter while she gathered Jeanne's diaper bag, blanket, and purse. Peter strapped Jeanne into the child-size sled and began to pull her to the car. With one slight tug, the sled sailed into the back of his legs causing him to slip and slide on the slick sidewalk. It was then that he realized the snow was only a mask for the layer of ice beneath. Another car crawled past. Peter walked down the long drive to check the roadway. Maybe just the sidewalks were slippery. He crunched through the grass beside the drive to make sure he wouldn't slip again. When he reached the end, he looked down the street. Our home was on the crest of a hill, which angled down for a hundred yards, flattened at the cross street, then curved upward, a more sizable hill. At the bottom of our hill, dozens of cars that had passed our house were crunched together. Drivers were spread all over the intersection exchanging insurance cards, lamenting that they were unable to see what lay at the bottom before cresting the hill, for then it was too late to stop. They just slid one into another.
Peter crunched back to the car, turned it off, and pulled Jeanne on the sled back to the house. "There's no way you and the baby are going anywhere," he said as he told Mary about his discovery of the crash site at the bottom of the hill. "Do you want me to call someone at the Watergate to tell them you won't be in," Mary called after Peter rushing down the steps to the lower level. "No," Peter called back from the hollow depths of the basement. "I just said you and Jeanne weren't going out. Not me," he said as he reappeared with something slung over his shoulders. He sat on the kitchen chair and quickly exchanged his Totes-covered loafers with a pair of skates. "I used to be pretty good at ice hockey," he said as he finished lacing the left skate. "I'll see if I still cut the ice, as we used to say on the streets." He wrapped his shoes in a plastic bag, secured them in his briefcase, wrapped his white silk scarf around his neck, and put on his black Fedora and sunglasses. He kissed Mary and Jeanne good-bye and gingerly navigated the back steps and found his footing on the drive. He headed toward the cul-de-sac and circled it several times as his skating got surer and his speed increased. He waved to all the incredulous neighbors as the watched him streaked past them on this dazzling roadway of ice.
Peter's thoughts were focused on getting up as much speed as he could around the cul-de-sac. He felt he was flying just above the road as he sped down the hill. All he could see were intermingled cars heaped up at the bottom. There was only a tiny space between them. Could he navigate it? He'd have to try. He tightened his briefcase between his legs, got into a squatting position, and headed directly into the tunnel of light. Swish! He was through it. All the crunched-up neighbors cheered him on as he sailed through the intersection. He held his briefcase tight as he forced his arms and legs to move like they had not moved for years. One final burst of adrenaline and he crested the next hill. His white scarf flew behind him looking like a flag, not of surrender, but of victory. He was now out of sight. No one knew what the roads were like beyond the development. No one knew whether he had succeeded in his journey to the Watergate.
The workshop was to begin at 9:00. The participants were drinking their third cup of coffee and downing an extra donut or two. They checked their watches. Two minutes of nine. Where was their instructor? One of the Executives headed to the door to make a call. Before he reached the doorknob, the door flew open. Peter, with rosy cheeks and skates slung over his shoulder, walked in. "Okay, men. Let's get to work. We have a new training system to design." The cheers of thirty participants could be heard throughout the Watergate's conference center as the clocked ticked to nine o'clock. Exactly.
|
