Tethered to Technology

I am frustrated because I forgot my cell phone charger cord at home this morning.  I remembered my car charger (changed cars with my husband this morning), so I’ve been forced to leave the phone in the car twice to get some juice into it.   Problem is, that phone number is the one I give everyone; I’m anticipating business calls and it makes me nuts to leave the phone in the car.

Fortunately, I did remember to plug my iPad in before I went to bed last evening.  And I’ve gotten the mess with my computer cord straightened out.  I had it confused with another cord and almost ran out of battery power at work one day.

Am I the only person on the planet who is sick unto death of living life at the end of a cord?  Cell phones, laptops, iPads, flashlights, cameras, MP3 players, iPods, and anything else they can put a cord on…..it’s maddening.  And every time you buy a new appliance you have to change the doggoned cords!  Apple is very likely making more on the phone chargers/cords/etc. than all the other things they produce!!

I’ve tried buying cords for home, for the office, for our place at the lake, for the car and a spare to keep in my handbag for emergencies.  I figure I have made an outlay of about $700.00 to keep equipment charged.   If I upgrade my iPhone I’ll have to start all over again.  The technology changes before I can get the plastic off the darned cords!!

Alright.  Let’s say you have all the cords in all the places you need.   Now you need to label them, because a white cord is a white cord is a white cord.  A black cord can go to a computer, an electric skillet or a camcorder.  In order to tell them apart  I’ve dabbed them with nail polish, used the plastic tabs off bread bags as labels, even applied twist ties and used a label maker in a desperate attempt to identify which appliance any given cord goes to.  Still, no matter how organized or well-planned my attack, I can never find the cord when my iPad battery starts to run low….which seems to be in no time at all.  

Given the fact that we pay an arm and a leg for them, why is the battery life so lousy on our electronics? They can track the signal from a battery operated ‘black box’ from a downed airplane seemingly forever.   If they have the materials and knowledge to construct an instrument that can fall from 30,000 feet, survive a fire and continue to send out a signal from the ocean floor for weeks on end……WHY can’t they design a cell phone that can withstand a drop on my kitchen floor with a battery life that is longer than the life span of a May-fly??

How can we move forward if our progress is hindered by the length of a recharging cord?  I look forward to the day when someone (anyone!) creates a battery that will last a lifetime.  Charge it once when you are gifted with this wonderful battery at your high school graduation party; recharge it before the guests arrive  for your ninetieth birthday celebration.  You should be able to get these remarkable batteries to fit any generation of electronics, and any product.

I know it may seem superficial, but that’s the gift I’d give the world.  There are many people working on world peace, the elimination of dreadful diseases and extending our lifespan.  I say keep up the good work…you are good human beings!  I, on the other hand, will be working on a battery that lasts 75 years without a recharge.  It may not be very compact, and it might have a kick start, but it will work!   Not because I’m a selfless human being who wants to teach the world to sing….but because it’s time to cut the cord.

                                                                Life is Good

A Little Corn can't Hurt....

Only 2 defining forces have ever offered to die for you....Jesus Christ and the American Soldier. One died for your soul, the other for your freedom.
                Lt. Col. Grant L. 
                      Rosensteel, Jr.

In today’s high tech, low morals, what-channel-are-the-Kardashians-on society it is rare that something strikes a chord with me.  I find myself in the position of trying to fend off more information than I take in.  We live in an exhausting world, bombarded by advertising impressions and demoralizing news programs.  The parade of people trying way too hard to get attention is pathetic at best (What WAS Michael Douglas thinking!!!!).

Daily I get scores of email forwarded from friends.  Some of it I enjoy; most of the wild conspiracy theory stuff just keeps Snopes in business.  I believe very little of it, and check out the worst of it.  I am convinced nothing is a bad as we fear or as good as we wish it to be…the internet stuff that goes around would have you believe otherwise.

It is in my nature to be skeptical about everything; it’s a fact of which I am not proud.  So, when I get something in my email that touches me, I am surprised to say the least.  The quote at the top of the page is one of those things.  It came attached to a much longer story, which may or may not be true, but that quote really hit home.  I guess the ‘cool kids’ would say it’s corny, and I guess they'd be right. 
 
Thing is...I guess I like corny.   Corny is comforting, soothing, refreshing; a nice break from hatred, violence and in-your-face vulgarity.   

I have printed out that quote and pinned it on the board in front of my desk to remind me that there is still good at work in this world.  There are people who still stand for the pledge of allegiance with their right hand placed firmly over a hopeful heart. 
In spite of the ugliness our society promotes, there are still those who support our soldiers and their families.  Many continue do good works through their church or service club simply because it is the right thing to do. They just don’t get their own reality shows, I guess.

That quote says all that to me, and more….. 

To believe in these things is, today more than ever, a conscious choice.   I choose to believe.

                                 Life is Good

                          

 

 

Happy Fathers Day, Pop.

The day you become a Father is the day you truly give your life away.  You probably thought that’s what happened when you met the mother of your child.  I bet you were pretty certain that’s what was going on when you stood before some kind of official and he/she read the words that made you man and wife.  Not so.

Having a child is THE most life changing event for anyone…becoming a Father gives you the opportunity to become a man.  I know that because that’s the kind of father I had.

My Mom has told me how excited she and Dad were to be having a child; as it turned out their only child.  Dad shared the experience with her by having morning sickness every day on the way to work.  He nearly wore a path in the tile of the waiting room while she was in labor; taking his two girls home from the hospital was the high point of his life.

I’m sure he was the typical 50’s and 60’s Dad.  He worked, came home to the evening meal, then read the paper and watched black and white TV.  It wasn’t glamorous, but it was constant and dependable.  Dad wasn’t the disciplinarian; in the team of good cop/bad cop he never was the villain.

When I was little, Daddy sat through many tea parties, ate tiny cakes from the Easy Bake Oven and patched my big doll named Freddie so the stuffing didn’t tumble out on the ground.    On Friday nights he stopped at Coney Island for a bag of hot dogs; the closest we came to eating out.  Once when I was sick he surprised me with a beautifully costumed Martha Washington doll I had spotted in a store.  Years later I understood it was something we could ill afford because he was working two jobs to make ends meet while Westinghouse was on strike.

When I was six I somehow contracted Scarlet Fever; a serious thing in those days.  Mom and I were quarantined for two weeks, Dad would stand outside the door to talk to us and leave groceries.  When the quarantine was lifted I was still too sick to go outside to play.  I remember my Dad carrying me into the hospital; I spent two more weeks recovering from the complications of Scarlet Fever.  My Mom stayed in my hospital room, and every minute he wasn’t at work my Dad was there, too.

You can do without a lot of material things and still have a happy childhood.  I wasn’t introduced to the symphony or the arts, and ours was not a bookish home.   I did not have a childhood of financial privilege; but I was loved and cared for.  My parents did the best they could…and that was good enough to make me strong and grateful.

As the years passed Dad was there to walk me down the aisle to give me away to a man who is very much like him in a lot of ways.  He enjoyed his grandchildren, often walking them around the block like a row of ducklings following along behind.   He helped with our moves from house to house, and he and Mom were great pinch hitters in our parenting line up.   

Having a Dad that loves you is one of life’s greatest assets.    His job from the day I was born was to make my life good; at least that was his interpretation.  He was embarrassingly proud of me; I was Daddy’s girl.   I hope I repaid a small part of that in the last years of his life when he was unable to do things for himself.   It was a privilege to give back what I could.

My father was a good man, and I think of him every day.   Happy Father’s Day, Pop.  I love you.

                                                                    Life is Good  

Can't it wait???

America's love affair with the telephone started the very day Alexander Graham Bell said, "Mr. Watson, come here.  I need you."

Through the years we've out grown the status symbol of having a telephone in every room.  Now we are eliminating land lines in our homes and carrying a cell phone in our pocket at all times.  

Be honest.  Aren't you at the point that you feel "naked" without your cell phone?  How can you tell what time it is, balance your check book, set your DVR or find your way in the dark without your cell phone??   It's really quite the little miracle.....and quite the modern day curse.

Thursday I was in a one hour meeting.  Heading in I always turn off my cell phone;  I'm not in charge of much any more and I actually like that. 

I took a chair at a table and waited for people to arrive.   The room filled quickly, the seat to my right was soon occupied by a woman I had never met.  I smiled and nodded, but she immediately ducked her head to dig in her purse for....what else....her cell phone.

The meeting began, the moderator doing her thing as she interacted with the group.  The woman beside me never looked up, it seemed she had decided to take this hour to write a book.   She attacked the tiny key board with great gusto, exhibiting a typing speed that must have taken a great deal of practice. Obviously she didn't know, or possibly she didn't care, that she could mute the key board.   Her typing/beeping continued through out the whole meeting time.  She did take one break when she talked rather loudly to the lady to her immediate right.  She proceeded to give her review of her new cell phone....needless to say she is quite the fan of her new smart phone.  It's too bad you don't have to be smart to own one.   By the time the meeting was over I was having a fantasy about grabbing the phone, throwing it on the ground and grinding it into the carpet while fighting the woman off with a folding chair.   In fact  I left the woman hunched over her cell phone; the maddening beep escorted me out the door.

It's not as if cell phones haven't been good the economy.  Well, some peoples economy, any way.  An entire industry of products we simply must have has sprung up to give us just the right designer cell phone case, the perfect hanger for plugging it in when at home, speakers that can be attached and rotating tripods so we can take panoramic pictures.   None of these items, or the cell phone service itself, is cheap.

 

I thought the 'invention' of the 24 hour  television news channel was a big mistake...but the dedication to constant contact and information our society exhibits makes that look good.    Texting, tweeting, Facebook and calling (to name a few)  gives us the opportunity to express every thought and list every action.   There is no escaping the loud, one-sided conversations going on among the clothing racks, in the grocery isles and even in the toilet stalls in public restrooms.   Evidently most of the population embraces the slogan "it's the next best thing to being there" as they prattle on and on about nothing, or even worse, share their most intimate secrets with anyone within earshot.  

I love the convenience of a cell phone, but it seems almost any convenience brings out the absolute worst in some of us.   Owning  one doesn't guarantee instant access to me any more than having one at home did.  Some times, and in some places, it is not appropriate to be on a telephone call or in a texting frenzy.
   

Come on America...let's take back our independence and relegate our cell phones to the place they actually should occupy; an appliance that we own, not the other way around.

                                                  Life is Good

The Battle

Today is one of the many days throughout the year I wish I could sit down and ask questions of my Dad......

Pop was in the Army during WW2.  It must have been a horrible experience.  Kill or be killed.   Wounded in action eight times, he lost a kidney, had a metal plate in one leg and shrapnel wounds that pockmarked the right side of his jaw and neck.  

As a child I never thought to ask him about 'the war'.   It was in the history books I read and seemed far removed from my father.  It was impossible for me to put him into the battle scenes that sometimes ran through my head like a news reel as I read about it.

I knew he couldn't sleep in a dark room;  we always had a night-light in our bathroom that shown into my parents bedroom. He never watched war movies or TV shows about soldiers.  He would quietly leave the room or change the channel...I never gave it much thought.

Dad fought malaria all his adult life, depression, pain and "nerves".  Later in life he was treated in a veterans hospital where they tried to bridge the nerves in his body that no longer connected because of the wounds he had suffered.  The drugs they treated him with had terrible side effects, so for most of his life he lived in constant pain because that's how his body interpreted everything.  Stitched together like Frankenstein's monster,  Dad's muscles and nerves were now his enemy.

Only in the last months of his life did Dad talk to me at all about his experiences.  He seemed fragile, so I still didn't ask questions, but accepted what he wanted to share.  Eventually I came to understand how deeply wounded he had been, and I was amazed at the herculean effort everyday life must have been for him.  His battle continued all his life without the possibility of any peace treaty. 

Somehow my Dad came out of the war physically damaged, but with a kind and gentle soul that never met a stranger.  He was a loving husband and a good father.  I miss him every single day,

Memorial Day makes me curious about the years of Dad's life that I know little about.  I wish I had asked more, I wish I had interviewed him then just as I would any hero I might talk to today.  Dad would have enjoyed Heart of Ohio Magazine and the article I surely would have done about him.   He is, and always will be, my hero.   

                                            Life is Good

Anniversaries are for remembering

Today is one of those days in my life when I know exactly where I was and what I was doing; 48 years ago today I married my husband, Larry.

We were too young, too inexperienced, had no prospects, and we were too dumb to know all that.

I can look back over my shoulder at our life together; it reaches back far into the distance but I remember every step.  The birth of our three wonderful children is the highlight, no doubt about that.  But I also remember buying our first house, for which we paid the princely sum of seven thousand dollars.  I remember the awful task of learning to drive a stick shift when our first car turned out to be a VW Beetle, and I remember letting the air out of the tires and tearing through the woods in it, too.   Learning to cook was a very big deal; for the first year we survived on “concoctions” which consisted of a can of green beans, a can of Krey canned meat and a can of icky, cooked potatoes.  Heat all that up in a pot and you might wonder how we made it to our first anniversary.   Thankfully our Moms cooked a lot…….

Our first house had a red bedroom.  It boasted red walls, red carpet, red curtains and red bedspread…all things that came together to give it the ambiance of a house of ill repute.  It was my husband’s first (and last) decorating input after he learned the phrase “ever since I was a little boy I wanted” would cause me to do anything he asked.  After that red bedroom the phrase didn’t work nearly as well.

Friday evenings were always special.  That was grocery store shopping night and watching “The Wild, Wild West” after we put the cold stuff away.  If we had money left, it might also be a cheap spaghetti night at the old Boston Spaghetti House.  I am still searching for someone who has the recipe for their spaghetti sauce all these years later.  The spaghetti extravaganzas stopped when our son was born because the “extra money” had to go for formula….a change we never regretted.

Through the years my husband has supported me in every possible way; financially, physically, spiritually and emotionally.  There is nothing I could have done to earn his devotion, and there is nothing that would ever replace it.

So, today….May 15^th, 2013….I say thank you to my husband, Larry.  Thank you for loving me no matter what for 48 years.  Thank you for loving me through thick and thin, through pregnancies and menopause and job changes and good times and bad times.  Thank you for putting up with me when I had my head on straight and when it was truly cockeyed.  Thank you for tucking me into the car as if I am still precious to you today and opening jar lids and putting up with a yappy dog.    You are my hero.

 

                                                                

                                                        Life is Good

 

Digging in the Dirt

Digging around in the dirt is something I like to do……I have no particular talent for growing things, but I enjoy it anyway.

This year I am going to plant lavender.  I’ve just written an article for the July issue of Heart of Ohio about the DayBreak Lavender Farm in Strongsville and I am psyched to grow some of the gorgeous plants.  If you’re a fan check out their website or visit them….tell them Heart of Ohio sent you!

Actually two things put me on this planting binge.  On the way to Florida last February Larry and I stayed at a lovely little place named The Indigo Inn.  Not only is it charming, but the toiletries they provide in the rooms are a treat for the weary traveler.  Lathering up with the lavender soap, then slathering myself with lavender lotion I promised myself I would treat myself to this lovely scent every chance I get from here on out.  I have a bar of lavender soap in my shower at home now that is about the size of a paving brick….but it smells heavenly and I enjoy it every day!

After experiencing that wonderful soap I researched lavender and found DayBreak Lavender Farm; I immediately contacted them for an interview.  It was a pleasure to meet the owners and talk to them about their passion….lavender.  Did you know there is a lavender festival?   There is!  Did you know you can do almost anything with lavender, from creating syrups to drying it for floral arrangements?  Who knew?

Last week I visited a greenhouse and bought a flat of lavender; several varieties.  What I will be planting is English lavender; I am on the lookout for French lavender as well.  I won’t have acres of lavender growing like they do, but my hope is the guidance I found on the DayBreak website will serve me well.    The plants I purchased should provide a beautiful border around my flower beds for years to come.

I’m looking forward to combing soil and sand and lime to create a medium in which the beautiful lavender might flourish.   I know I’ll be swatting flies; sweaty, dirt streaked and sore by the time I’m done.    Gardening (and life in general) requires three things:  Do your research, gather the proper materials, do the hard work. 

I guess when you get right down to it that’s what life is all about.    We do the dirty work, and instead of thinking about callouses and the risk of failure, we simply sit down and optimistically wait for the scent of lavender to drift into the windows.    

                                                                  
                                                                             Life is Good

Who done it??

 

 

Funny how a comment can send you on a quest; that’s what happened to me last week.

I was talking with a woman in my office whom I consider to be a talented photographer and writer.  She commented that sometimes she looks at something she has written and wonders, ‘who wrote that mushy stuff; where did that come from?’   She went on to say that sometimes she feels there is someone ‘in there’ doing the writing.

That struck a chord in me because I have a good friend who….well, let’s say she doesn’t care for my blog.  She says it’s sappy and that I am much wittier and more caustic than the things I write.   I can’t guarantee I’m any funnier in person, but I know I have a sarcastic bent that may not come off in my writings.   I’ve also written things that I would not, likely could not, put into words and wondered where it came from.

As the editor of Heart of Ohio Magazine it’s been my good luck to get to know Barb Haller; she is now a contributing columnist for us.  I wrote her to ask if she ever feels that her writing is somehow different from the person others seem to perceive her to be.   Her response was that she believes writers access and reveal a deeper part of themselves through their work.  Writing helps her sort out her thoughts and feelings.  She says she, too, has experienced a “who’s that?” when she reads something she wrote because it often reflects deeper things than day to day life.

Now my interest was really piqued.  I called another friend, this time a male, and asked if he ever experienced this split between his every-day life and his writing.  He laughed, “Well, now that you mention it I often go back to read things I’ve written years before and wonder who in the heck put that in my file.  Sometimes my work can come off as stuffy and cerebral, and you know that’s not what I’m about!”

I’ve been writing this blog over a year and a half now; the magazine over four years.  I went back through old blog posts to see if any of them struck me as having been written by some ‘other’ personality.  Here’s what I’ve decided:

Writing is a very solitary and private thing.  In our day to day lives we interact with other people; their reactions, needs and expectations can change how we behave; even who we are.  Writing isn’t like that….writing doesn’t happen to anyone but the writer.  It seems to me that writing is the pure distillation of who we really are; if you cannot tap into that you’re not a writer.  When I write the product is pure “me” without anyone else’s input.   Even the creation of fiction is pure because the source of the material is right inside the writers head; processed and stretched and chiseled by no one but the author.  In its purest form writing is ones interaction with oneself.

I suppose in talking with other writers I’ve answered my own question.  The outer ‘me’ is who I am when I react to other people, demands and unavoidable daily stress.  The writer, the inner ‘me’, is who I am when left to explore my own thoughts and feelings.  I can only speak for me, but the only way for that inner person to be heard is to write….and so I do. 

                                                      Life is Good 

 

 

Sound the Alarm

Last week our burglar alarm at home went off; an event that brought me home from work and a nice, big deputy to my driveway.  Fortunately it was a false alarm; something needs to be replaced in the alarm system and that’s being done today.

If there is anything more unnerving than having a stranger go through your house, from top to bottom when you were not expecting company, I just don’t know what it might be.  As I waited in the kitchen (where the counter was littered with the remnants of breakfast) the deputy went through the other rooms that actually made the kitchen look tidy (honest officer, I was running late this morning).  I could have saved him the effort of checking the closets because not one of them would have had room for a burglar to hide in. (Just like Fibber McGhee, I always plan to clean out those closets) Actually, that spare bedroom has not been ransacked; that’s just the mess I made looking for a sweater this morning.  Oh…my…goodness!!

If you take the time to check it out in the dictionary, the definition of motivation is:  To give reason, incentive, enthusiasm or interest that causes a specific action or behavior.  To say that having this nice young man walk through my house was motivating would be an understatement.  The weekend arrived to find me motivated to clear the clutter and excess from the house.  I am thinking of it as my “less is more” awakening.

The weekend was a blur of me dumping dresser drawers, pulling things from closets and making trips to Goodwill.  I had not done this thorough a toss-out for quite some time, but the fear of being nominated for an episode of Hoarders kept me moving…or should I say ‘motivated’.

Clearing out a closet is rather like tearing pages from a scrapbook for me.  This is the dress I wore in Washington….here is a suit I bought on our trip to New Orleans….oh, I just can’t toss these sandals I bought in Florida (yes I can!)….ahhhhh, one of the children gave me this hand bag.   I could go on for pages, but suffice it to say I over came the voices in my head and kept tossing.

I wasn’t alone in my effort to get rid of stuff.  Larry was right in there cheering me on and dumping his own dresser drawers.  By the end of the day we were exhausted but feeling pretty good about all the clutter we had cleared away.  Next we’re taking on the basement and the garage; while that promises to be a much bigger project, I think we will make some real headway.  There just might be some usable and organized space in our future.

To think I owe this spring cleaning frenzy to a malfunctioning burglar alarm.  Go figure.  It’s probably just as well that I didn’t catch the name of the young officer who showed up in the driveway.  I’m pretty sure my husband would send him a thank you note if I had.   I just know if the alarm goes off again I will be sashaying through the house, whipping open closet doors like Vanna White introducing a vowel!

                                                                        Life is Good  

 

 

To buy or not to buy.....

With the internet the whole world is at your fingertips, just waiting for a credit card number.  Baskets from the jungle, capri pants made from drapes from a castle in Germany, purses made by itinerant palm wavers in Istanbul.  It's all out there............

Two weeks ago I found myself tempted by a new on-line offering called FAB.  While I like to buy locally whenever I can, this was a problem solver I couldn't resist.  These folks had an iPad cover with a built in battery that was purported to extend the life of your iPad by up to 60%.  If, like me, you're an iPad addict you know the newest version eats battery life.  That beautiful screen clarity comes at a price; I found myself living at the end of the little white cord much too often.

The FAB ad showed up in my email one day when I was waiting for my iPad to charge....I sat drumming my fingers on the table as my impatience grew.  So I read the email and boy was I interested!   For only $45.00 I could have backup that would go with me.   I'm IN!!!

In just four working days my beautiful, supple, peddle leather finish tablet cover arrived;  I couldn't wait to charge it and tuck my iPad safely inside.  It's guaranteed to work with every model of iPad....what could possibly go wrong?

I freely admit to being a techo-klutz.  My knowledge is sketchy to say the least....but even I could tell these adaptors and plugs were not going to work.  I switched and pushed and tugged to no avail.  As I rummaged through the see though box for an adaptor that had no place to hide I realized I'd screwed up.....this cover works with every iPad on the planet except mine.

I read the packing invoice and at the bottom it was plainly marked "This is a final sale item".  Rats!!
I went into the "you got what you deserve for being dumb enough to buy from the internet" internal rant I can always count on.  When my inner demon finally ran out of vitriol I decided to write the internet company and explain my problem.  I'm not a great believer that customer service still exists anywhere in the world....but what the heck.

This was on a Sunday, but I went to the FAB website and finally found a "this is how you can get to us" button.  I wrote, explaining that I read the 'will work with any iPad' sentence and didn't realize I was the only person on the planet excluded.   Did I get the cover missing a plug?  Did something fall out of the box as it made it's way to me from someplace deep inside China?  What's up with this?

Actually, I was a little more formal, but not much.  Not thirty minutes later I got an email that said someone was working on my problem.  I got another follow up email from another person an hour later.  By Monday afternoon I got the following email from a FAB representative:

________________________________________________________________________________
                        _______________________________________________________

 

Hi Diana,

Thank you so much for your patient understanding. I truly wish I was the bearer of better news.

I just heard back about the status of the replacement for the defective item you received. My best understanding is that this specific Folio iPad Case is likely defective regarding your specific iPad generation. Unfortunately, there aren't enough of these designs available for us to get you a new one. I know this is a double whammy of bad news, and I'm so bummed it was a part of your Fab experience.

I'm really sorry that I couldn't come through for you on this one, and I still want to make sure you're taken care of. You should never pay for something that doesn't work - that would be such a rip off! I'm going to make sure you're issued a full refund of $45, back to your credit card. It may take 5-10 business days for the refund to appear on your card.

The case is yours to keep and do with as you see best. Perhaps a loved one with a different iPad could use it, or at the least, it could be donated. Whatever makes you happy.

I'm so upset that this design could not be replaced, and want the chance to show you a better experience in the future. I've added a $10 Fab credit to your account, to make you smile, and bring a bit of happiness into your day.

If there's anything else you need, I'm always here via email or at xxx.xxxx.xxxx and personally at your service.

Best,

 XXXXXX
Crackerjack
Fab

__________________________________________________________________________

                                 ________________________________________________
Can you imagine my surprise to get not just an answer....but a GOOD answer??  The folio will fit my older iPad just fine, and it is likely my own stupidity and inexperience that created the problem.  But these folks are willing to put their money where their mouth is and work to keep a customer.  I might add that I will be a good customer in the future because of this amazing service!

Since I never hesitate to express my dismay, I just wanted to share with you my surprise and delight at finding not just an innovative web-company but one that follows through and delivers! 

If you get the chance, go to FAB.com and check out all the original things they have for sale.  They certainly have my endorsement...............

                                                       Life is Good

Is Marcus Welby still taking patients?

I started the day at my doctor’s office.  It’s a regular thing.   Every six months I stop in and he tells me I’m doing fine.  Giving me way too much credit, he tells me the results of my blood work; I nod as if I actually understand what he’s talking about, then go home to complain about my aches and pains.  You know, the standard doctor’s appointment.  

Sitting there in the examining room this morning I waited quietly for my ten minutes with the good doctor.  Indulging my low threshold for boredom, I looked through gardening pictures I’d downloaded to my iPad and listened to conversations in the hallway.  It ebbed and flowed, discussions between the doctors, the doctors and their nurses, the nurses and the nurses and a doctor and a very hard of hearing patient in the next room.  It brought me to one glaring certainty….I am glad I’m not in the medical profession.

Growing up I wanted Marcus Welby to be our family doctor.  He had the most wonderful bedside manner, and he never seemed to hurt anyone.  Having a young James Brolin for a sidekick didn’t hurt anything, either.  Watching that show I knew I could never be a doctor….I was, after all, only a girl.  But I could be a nurse!  It was the next best thing, and I’d get to hang out with doctors like Marcus Welby and James Brolin.  Ah yes…..I would be a nurse.

I grew up telling people that I wanted to be a nurse, even did some prep work in high school for a nursing career.   Then my young heart fell in love, and it seemed the only thing my future needed in it was this tall young man named Larry. 

Yes…I traded my dreams of working with Marcus Welby for a husband and, eventually, three babies.  First there was a beautiful little boy who never slept and ate like a lumberjack.  He was followed by a sweet blonde baby girl who was the best baby in the world.  Before the ink was dry on that birth certificate we produced another little girl who screamed for the first three months of her life.   I realized after the birth of the third baby that I had accidently assumed my nursing career without any training and absolutely no credentials.   I also discovered a voice inside my head that kept repeating, “If I ever get these babies raised no one will ever throw up on me again.”   My dream of becoming a nurse died a miserable death as I tended my coughing, sneezing, ‘my tummy hurts’ little brood.

And so, all these years later, I found myself sitting in the examining room this morning listening to the real thing.  One doctor was trying to straighten out some blood work orders with a new nurse.  Their conversation faded away as two nurses stepped into my hearing range discussing a patient who was ‘hard to room’; the one offering to get the fellow into a room for the other, more reluctant, woman.   From the next room I could hear my own doctor clearly as he tried to explain to an elderly gentleman (obviously very hard of hearing) why it’s not good to put things into your ears.  Then everything was temporarily drowned out by a wailing infant that went by the door. 

Eventually a nurse came in, took my blood pressure and asked me some questions.  As she exited my doctor blew into the room, dropping heavily onto a rolling stool and exhaling as if he’d just slid into home plate. ( Funny, Marcus Welby never looked harried)  My family doctor is fiftyish with a boyish face that will serve him well for a lot of years; this morning he looked tired and frazzled.  Dealing with the complaints of however many people you can push through an office in eight hours as you take calls from other doctors, answer questions about patient’s phone calls, and make important decisions on the fly has got to be exhausting.

Happily, I was there to report that, at least for the moment, I’m feeling pretty chipper; looking forward to kayaking in a few weeks.  I had no complaints to add to his day, and his smile as he left the room seemed almost grateful.  I left the office smiling with the realization that life seems to work out as it should…I wasn’t Florence Nightingale material to begin with.   Besides…I’d never have been happy working for anyone but Marcus Welby.

                                                                Life is Good

Life After Secretarial Support

      

 Someone once said, “There is nothing constant but change,” and they were on the money. 

To my way of thinking change comes in two sizes.  There are small changes that happen so gradually we don’t take much notice at the time.  A grey hair here and there…a small wrinkle that somehow found its way to your forehead and deepens slightly with every facial expression…grass slowly reclaiming the flower bed on the east side of the house….those things.   I call those “accumulating changes” because we don’t see them all at once. 

More jarring, or joyous, are the big changes that alter your life forever:  Marriage…the birth of a child…death of a parent….retirement.  I call those “bomb changes” because they hit one day, but have a ripple effect on the rest of your life.

I have experienced all of the ‘afore mentioned changes; celebrated some and endured others.   They’re all life changers, but the one that gives me the most trouble at this moment is retirement.

Yes, I retired from managing radio stations, and yes…I did go back to work six months later as editor of Heart of Ohio Magazine.  There are light years of difference in the two jobs…writing and editing is such a joy for me at this point in my life!  That is not to say I didn’t enjoy radio…I had over thirty terrific years in a great business.  But the biggest change for me has been the fact that I no longer have a secretary!

Managing stations in three counties I was fortunate enough to have the most efficient, intelligent and dependable people in each office who made up for all of my shortcomings.   My administrative assistant in Ashland, Tammy Pelton, could make a spread sheet sing as she filled them with figures and formulas.  She had a razor sharp memory for numbers, and without her the budgets for all the stations would have been a nightmare, if not impossible.  In Marion Amy Coder and Laurie Dutton could make anything happen, and in Mansfield Lynn Kiley knew where everything was or was supposed to be.  Nancy Brandt could wring any item needed for traffic or billing out of the proprietary software systems she had somehow conquered.

These women weren’t actually “secretaries”…they were the memory banks and human computer chips that made business life move along as I breezed in and out of the various stations.  One thing they all had in common, they knew I was helpless in the face of a fax machine, copier and the ever mysterious computer, and were kind enough to act as though it were a normal affliction.   At budget time I spit out numbers and Tammy put them into spread sheet order.  In every office there was at least one gal upon whom I depended heavily when my computer went berserk or the copy machine ran out of paper or I needed to know how much our electric bills were six years ago, on a Friday, before six o'clock.

Fast forward a few years.  I’m enjoying my version of retirement; working with a nice staff at the office and interviewing interesting people so I can write their stories for the growing number of readers of Heart of Ohio Magazine.   As I work on those stories I’m reminded that I can type, but do little else on this computer contraption.   I’m still trying to figure out how to change the spacing…and often I do things that cause my screen to change up its offerings.  I plunk around and sometimes get it back to “normal”; other times I simply have to work around what I’ve done.  Not so long ago I could have called out, “Tammy!” and she would have swept into my office to tap a few keys.  Everything would have gone back into its proper order on the backlit screen, waiting patiently for me to screw it up again.

Today, with no one specifically assigned to clean up after me, I have a printer that won’t print pictures from my laptop and a copy machine that spits things, unrelated to my needs, out of slots I didn’t even see before I pressed the buttons.  In addition there is a fax machine I won’t even begin to deal with.  I find this constant assault on my technical abilities (or lack thereof) to be tiring.  I’m certainly not in Kansas anymore.

Yes, I’ve had to adjust to life after secretarial support….and it’s not easy.  Retirement is definitely a life changing event, and so is a career change.  I am lucky to have worked with a wonderful group of gals who were not just talented staff, but friends as well.  Although we’ve gone our separate ways we still manage to get together once in a while for lunch or a drink and talk about the “old days”.  I just hope they all know how much I appreciate them…back then and now.

One thing all this change has taught me is to take life one day at a time; live in the moment.   If that moment happens to be trying to figure out how to get my original out of the bowels of the copy machine….so be it.

                                                                              Life is Good