Technology: Remotely Interesting

Recently we moved my Mom into assisted living while she recovers from surgery.  If you haven’t moved someone who’s lived in the same house for sixty years, you just haven’t lived.  Everything went rather smoothly until we got to the television.

My bet is that sixty years ago, when a person moved into a new home,  they were thrilled with indoor plumbing and more than two electrical outlets in any given room.  The kitchen and bath would be set up, the beds in place and… viola’….you were home!  That’s not the case any longer.

The two most important elements in today’s home (I have learned through this experience) are a working telephone and a cable connected TV with a working remote.  Giving up the cable box in one location means getting that service hooked up at the new location.  It also means giving up your remote.  In this case a new flat screen was added to the living room; the old TV was to be relegated to the bedroom.  That’s when the problem started.

 

If you're ever bored enough to search through your house, start a pile of remote controls and see how large it grows.   My Mother had saved every remote control she had ever owned, none of which matched her old TV that sat quietly waiting instructions in her new bedroom.

A trip to a local electronics department offered up a “universal remote”.   We never could figure out what universe it came from, evidently not one that was familiar with fifteen year old analog TV technology.  It was returned.  Eventually we gave up and replaced the old TV as well.  No one gets up and changes the channels by hand any longer; certainly not an 87 year old woman recovering from surgery.

Sitting there, looking at this pile of useless technology, I began to think of all the things for which we’ve had remote controls and I wondered if they were still around.  Let’s see, a six slot cd carousel, a wall mounted stereo, a minimum of three VCR boxes, two DVD players, Bose radio remotes and ceiling fan remotes….even our fireplace has a remote control!    We have six TV sets, all of varying ages and all with remotes.  There are at least two old sets stored on the shelves in the basement for some reason with their remotes taped to their sides.  I’ve safely tucked away garage door openers that do nothing, and we have remote start and door opening key fobs that are left over from cars long gone.  My best guesstimate would be two or three dozen “remotes” that no longer serve any purpose await my next cleaning frenzy.  

When I finally dig into this project I am also going to get rid of all the “remote organizers” I’ve invested in over the years.  In an effort to keep these things in one place I’ve purchased oddly shaped plastic things, artfully woven baskets, warm colored leather cases, beautiful hammered metal boxes and some wooden things with slots and bins and spaces only a true pack rat could appreciate. 

It is beyond my comprehension why we save these things.  I suppose I feel guilty because this is technology I never mastered beyond the “on/off” and “channel/volume” functions.   Perhaps it’s out of respect for what these controls could have done (if only I’d read the book) that keeps them squirreled away.  Seeing my Mom's collection of useless plastic has only made me realize that, at best, our house is a disorganized technology scrapbook of sorts.

              I’m waiting for a snowy, blustery Sunday to test my resolve to toss them all away.   Unless, of course, I come upon a technology museum that takes donations.   

                                                                            Life is Good

Music of my life.....

MP-3….iPod….music channels…CD’s...it seems to me that music is just music when you get it in one of these efficient, but unromantic, ways.   But music was an experience when you dropped nickels into a juke box. 

Of all the ‘machines’ of my youth the one I miss the most is the juke box.  Anywhere you went…there it was!  See it?  Sitting there in the corner of the dimly lit room?  Some had bubble lights, others had sequential colors flashing; but each one was a well-lighted, arched box of entertainment.   I can remember pumping nickels into the hulking, friendly robot; watching as others did the same.   I’d try to count the “clinks” of their change to see how many records I’d have to listen to before my favorite song played.  It was a real bonus if someone else played the same song!  Ah…….the music!

There was only one thing that might equal hearing your favorite song played on the juke box; hearing your favorite song played on the radio!  I remember calling WCLW and WMAN to request a song dedication.  “And now, this song goes out to Diana….Purple People Eater!”  A fleeting moment of fame; my name on the radio.  It just didn’t get any better than that in 1960.   

A storefront downtown sold the used 45’s for twenty cents each when they changed the inventory in the area juke boxes.  I was in ‘five for a dollar heaven’ when I got a chance to go in there and buy records.  I still have many of those old 45’s stored in our basement; they have my maiden name scrawled in a childish hand across the label.  In those long ago days everyone took their favorite 45’s to parties to dance to and that made sure you got them back.

Listening to the oldies I make no judgment on today’s music.   The popular music of our generation silly, repetitious nonsense...and I loved it.  It still makes me happy today; whisking me back to a simpler time in our country’s life, not just my own.  I am grateful to have been a child in a world that was still enjoying the sleep of the innocent.

Today’s music may be easier to come by, more portable and goodness knows there are more varieties from which to choose.  That’s progress. But something seems to have been lost in the change.   I still see the crowd around the juke box, waiting for that special song to drop onto the turntable…their faces lit by the red and green and blue and yellow lights winking around the cathedral shaped box.   It wasn’t just listening to the music, but the anticipation that made it not a background, but a foreground experience.

I hope I always remember the music.    Life is Good.

A Kiss is Just a Kiss....

Do you remember your first kiss with your significant other?  If you’ve been married as long as my spouse and I have that experience may have faded into one of the darker corners of your mind.   I think my husband would rather I didn’t, but with his permission here is the story of our first kiss.

It was my fourteenth summer; I would be fifteen in the fall.  He was sixteen (drove a convertible) and his seventeenth birthday would be in the fall as well.  I wasn’t really allowed to date, but my Mom was wavering on that so I pushed the issue when my best friend’s cousin asked me to go for a root beer at the local drive in.  (He drove a convertible!)

And so it was that the totally inexperienced young couple ended up at the root beer stand.  My Mother had sternly told me to be home in an hour, and now we sat waiting for our car hop to break our uncomfortable silence.

Every time it crosses your mind how “difficult” it is to be a grown up, try to remember how gut wrenchingly hard it was to be a young teen.  Will he try to kiss me?   What if I bump his nose….Oh, my God I know I’m going to bump his nose!  It was really scary stuff.

Making small talk when you’re fourteen is difficult when you’ve had as little life experience as I’d had at that stage of my life.  An only child, I’d been born to a Mother who loved me with ‘industrial strength’ love.  She was strict in most ways and I was amazed that she had allowed me to go for root beer with this older man of sixteen.   Have I mentioned he drove a convertible?

Finally the car hop emerged from the side door with a tray that held two large root beers in frosty mugs.  I was relieved to have something to do; I expect Larry felt the same.  In excruciating shyness we drank our root beers and talked.  All too soon we had finished; he replaced our mugs on the red cloth that lined the silver tray attached to the car window.   

I sat cuddled close to him, his right arm around my shoulder.  Now….the moment of truth!  He leaned over and kissed me soundly; since neither nose was misplaced it went rather well as I remember.  And then, in a self-assured way, he fired up the convertible and swept out of the parking lot.   The macho squeal of tires was impressive as we sped off with the silver tray and two root beer mugs still attached to the car window.

The old adage, “Youth is wasted on the young”, isn’t really true.  The great thing about it is you can relive it over and over again in your mature years.  I remember my own quite clearly…..and I drive a convertible.

                                                                Life is Good