I was born in a post-WWII world where mothers stayed home and wore aprons. Parents went out every morning and drove cars to work.
Fans, not air conditioners, made the summer heat bearable, having a phone meant being in a party line, and credit was the local grocery store owner allowing her to open an account.
The meat was sliced by a butcher who he greeted by name before delivering his order neatly wrapped in crisp paper. Bananas were yellow, tomatoes were flavourful, and coriander was unknown in most of the United States.
I remember when our phone number went from five digits to ten, and the day we were all taken to the school auditorium to learn about the new kid on the block: the zip code.
During the summer, we stayed up late at night and watched Sputnik go by.
I have lived through the Age of Aquarius, the deaths of the Kennedy brothers, Martin Luther King and Elvis, and now I stand still and watch America become brutalized.
They’ve cut my hair in a ducktail at the back, pulled me back into a ponytail, and let me rock gently somewhere south of my waist.
The hems of my skirts have been mini, maxi and slightly below the knee.
I have printed with a pencil, I have learned the script with a fountain pen, and now I rely on a rollerball.
I learned how to write on a black Underwood with a cloth tape, switched to a desk-sized MTST, and then switched to a MIS that proudly displayed a tape flowing around two wheels.
I spoke DOS, learned Windows, and used Google.
Now I know I’ve reached that stage where I’m older and more tired than most, but I’m not dead yet, like those of you who have read A Tired Older Woman: Lose Weight and Keep It Off! can attest. In fact, I have worked hard to stay alive.
I can still learn. In fact, I make sure to learn several new things every day, at least one of them technical, even though writers, by definition, are verbal.
Nobody can say that I have not been flexible or that I have not been willing to accept the change, he has greeted me. However, for the first time in my life, I am overwhelmed by the latest technological advancement: social media.
I can handle Facebook, although I don’t see much use for it.
Twitter, on the other hand, has me stumped.
Thinking it would get me started, a friend bought me what I’m sure is a perfectly well-written brochure designed to unlock the mysteries of Twitter to the uninitiated.
I admit I have a technical challenge, but with Twitter, no matter what I do, I just don’t get it. In part, I am convinced because the software does not like me.
Every morning I wake up determined to maintain a good attitude. Then I entertain myself …
And I entertain myself …
And I entertain myself a little more …
Postponing the inevitable.
Finally I settle into my comfy chair with my laptop and prepare for battle – an oversized coffee mug next to me provides Dutch value, @Annie_Acorn.
I take a deep breath, connect, and start scrolling through the verbal noise, looking for a retweet possibility or two. Just when I find one, the Tweet god updates the system, and the post I was looking at disappears completely, leaving me looking at a semi-nude photo that a young man has chosen to represent himself.
Undaunted, I search for a good photo of someone I can reply to in an effort to make a connection, and a smiling face greets me, over and over, one on top of the other, in a series of tweets.
The first quotes Voltaire and the second contains a familiar verse from the Bible. I feel encouraged and my gaze continues down the page.
The third tweet refers to the hot and humid day and, living in the DC area, I am preparing to commiserate.
Fortunately, my eye slides one more tweet before my slow reflexes can click my mouse. The girl I’m about to communicate with is tweeting from prison, where she resides for having committed murder.
Refusing to admit defeat yet, I follow another series of tweets upward, following a frail-looking young woman as she travels from place to place through a major city. Coming from an older generation, I am concerned about the way you are exposing your location to a potential stalker.
Coming to “What’s going on?” box, I pause to think of something to tweet to a world I’m sure isn’t exactly holding its breath, just as a new post falls on a long-term widow’s line.
I found out that today would have been your 25th wedding anniversary, although you have no idea why you are tweeting it.
With a click of the mouse, I prepare to respond, “My husband died 18 years ago. You never forget your loved ones.” I click the tweet button and let out a sigh.
Despite the weird exhibitionists and nonsensical verbal noise, I’ve come through time and space and hopefully made someone I don’t even know feel a little better.
It was worth it?
For her? Maybe.
For me? Not so much.
