Been There Done That

E.M.Hazell

Nothing like starting the New Year by looking back, way back. What I find looking back is looking, looking, LOOKING. It seems that I spent a lot of time looking for something I need and I can’t find. Looking for my glasses only to find them around my neck when I no longer need them. By that time I’ve gone on to look for my knitting needles. That becomes very annoying when I had them five minutes earlier, just before the couch ate them up. I look for my shoes when I need to get dressed. I look for my car keys when I need to drive to the store. Sometimes I look for my check book when I get to the store, not to mention the list I made of things to get. I look for the leash when it is time to walk the dog. The old Grand Dame, Grandmamma lets out a soft chuckle from her post in the Swamp.
“If your head was not on your body, you’d be looking for that.” That always was her standard reply. My kids remind me that I had a better one. When they were looking for something I felt they needed.
“If it was an ice cream cone, you’d found it by now!” My daughter reminds me.
Looking back at looking for things I can’t find is entirely of my own making.
“A place for everything and everything in its place”, my mother used to tell me.
Of course there was no problem with a place-for-everything. When I took the kids on an extended vacation I had my driver’s license in my purse. I have yet to figure out how that driver’s license made it back to Springfield long before I arrived there.
Of course laws about where to keep the driver’s license in order to produce them when a polite officer requested to see them (there were those little incidences that had to do with going at the right speed).
As I grew older or, shall we say more mature, there was that thing called multi-tasking. That required having things needed for multi-tasking. The computer taught me a few things about that. It is not possible to keep up a running conversation on the phone and at the same time keying in the correct amount of signs, letters and number for an e-mail address. Something always gets forgotten and the computer is unforgivable about that; polite but unforgiving. One of my friends still wonders how I managed to send an e-mail two weeks after I just knew I had posted that e-mail.
But this is a new year and time gets more precious the older you get. Date lines come and go and I found out that I haven’t even started to write that little column. Gerry and I were talking about that. And I believe I reiterated that in the year to come, I shall be writing one column ahead. I love Faye and I hate to leave her on that date-line day without a column.
No specific new year’s resolution this year, but a firm commitment when it comes to daily tasks, like making the bed in the morning and cleaning up dirty dishes at night. Like making sure I wrote down the dates of things to do and places to be. That way I won’t wind up promising to be in two places at once.
Those were the things I talked about to Gerry on the phone. Of course I was just a tat ambitious. I put down the phone using the speaker phone as I carefully brewed that afternoon-cup-of-tea. And so I picked up the tea and the two biscuits and cheerfully explained how efficient I could be. I almost made it to the front room when I heard a faint voice in the distance saying: “You’re fading away!!!”
I was still talking to my cup of tea. Multi tasking only works when the teacup serves to hold the tea and the phone to hold the conversation.
I think I’ll work on changing habits one habit at a time. And when my friends tell me of their own little mismanagements with words or memory or time or place, I’ll just say politely:“Been there, done that; “ I just don’t want to do it as often as I used to.

BELTANE

What is the common denominator for spring flowers, standing rocks and people?
The answer is: A CELEBRATION. In the British Isles, among the Celts, the Angles and the Saxon, the festival was known as Beltane.
On the continent of Europe it was known as May Day. And it was celebrated on May 1st.
Beltane, the truth be known, circled the globe as a celebration of the return of life.
As a child, growing up in Germany, it was something to look forward to. On May first, we made bouquets, we made baskets, we wrote those tender phrases that made the recipient feel kind and good about the self as well as about the giver of the May Basket.
May Baskets were no given lightly. We wanted to make certain that this little gift went to the person we found most admirable, most capable of being loved. And so we gathered little comments from other who joined in the venture. Mostly we wanted to know if the person was king, generous, compassionate, helpful, joyful and caring.
Once, as a small child, I plucked my little wild flowers, with a little root, and a little earth, and placed it on the altar of the church I passed every day on my way to school. The church was the domain of the Benedictines. I often wondered what they thought or felt when they found those earthbound weeds on the altar on that immaculately white altar linen. In my childish way of thinking I figured God deserved a May Day Basket.
I still give those little May Day Baskets. Now with the computer and all those modern conveniences, I simply scan a wild flower, and send it to some one deserving.
Well it’s that time and as I have always done, I’ve asked the questions. The answers came from those who knew that person well.
She is kind, considered, compassionate, thoughtful and always eager to please. I know her to be a teacher, a writer, a professional person and an excellent friend.
Those of you who receive and read the ILLUMINATE, know her as Elaine Johnson. She is al those things required by Beltane Tradition and she is physically attractive as well. So. Go ahead Elaine, allow me a little more space for my accolade, and take a bow. You deserve it for all the work you do, month after month, year after year, without s single solitary complaint.

 

Camellia!
or
“SLIDING IN TO THE NEW YEAR WITH CLASS

E.M.Hazell

Gathering with old friends before during and after the holiday season adds a certain charm a feeling of warmth and nostalgia to the otherwise crass realization that time does move on.. When the calendar slips from 05 to 06, we’re all a year older. Those years add up.
There are certainties about that progression of time. Some things we have less of, some things we have more of. I certainly have less hair. I also have less height. But those inches that disappeared vertically are now there horizontally. Where did that marvelous waist line go? It appears that I have a few move fat globules. That is something I do wish I had less of.
I had the good fortune to spend a little time with Bill and Faye. And we were talking about those well known facts of life. We did not refer to it as aging; we rather referred to it as maturing. And we were in agreement that we have matured rather well. Bill was on his way playing Santa Clause to his tenants and friends. Faye had a gift for me from the Guru. Since the camellia shrub in the greenhouse was blooming, I brought a camellia blossom to Faye. Faye loves flowers. Bill reminisced about the time when he ventured in to the greenhouse business. Bill and my husband had that love of flowers in common. Bill is a business person and that was one thing my husband was not. Raising flowers was something he loved. Business ventures never worked out for him.
Faye was interested in the size of the greenhouse.
“How big is it?” she asked. I figured it was about eight by ten feet. Bill wanted to know what I did with the plants during the summertime.
“I usually find a kind person in the spring that helps putting the plants outside,” I explained. The empty greenhouse idea roused Faye’s curiosity.
“What do you do with the greenhouse during the summer?”
“It doubles as a wild-life nursery,” I responded. I couldn’t help but smile because I thought of a particular wild-life venture. That smile did not escape Faye’s attention.
“One year we were blessed with four little skunks.” Now I had Bill’s attention as well. The questions were coming one after the other. No, contrary to popular belief skunks did not have an odor. They did have a chemical weapon that was used only when the animal felt its life endangered. Yes, they could use that weapon even before they were weaned. No, they never used it around each other or in the nesting area.
When the news got out that we harbored a litter of skunks friends and acquaintances were eager to see the babies. Visits were granted with the understanding that if and when the skunks hoisted that infamous tail, visitors must leave the premise. And they did just that. Four little skunks each tapping the floor with little front paws and then hoisting the tail was the significant event that signaled retreat from the greenhouse. That included a wildlife photographer who was as quick with the camera as he was on his feet. As to the question did they ever??? Yes, only once when my husband approached them unannounced. I was out walking the dog at that time. I knew what had happened the moment I entered the house. There was a mixture of potpourri and eau de skunk in the air. Skunks seem to know the difference between male and female. Theirs is a matriarchal society. The female raises her young alone. Males of any kind are never permitted.
The real crisis came when it was time to release them. Tricking four skunks in to a small dog carrier, covering the whole thing, transporting that dangerous mass in the backseat of a car and releasing it in the wilderness was a challenge. I drove and my husband prayed a lot. If we were stopped by police or anyone else how would we explain what we were doing? If the animals by any chance used their chemical weapon how would we ever get that smell out of the car?
Things went well. We arrived at out destination. One by one the now fully grown animals left the carrier, came up to me to say goodbye and immediately acquainted themselves with the environment.
Life was kind of empty after that and so was the greenhouse. I learned a lot from that adventure. And I took a lot of pictures. The whole affair became the chapter in a book I wrote, titled: Some of my best friends walk on all fours”. I loved animals and my husband loved plants and sometimes we shared territory for a common cause. I think I heard him tell a friend one time that living with me was not an easy task, but at least it wasn’t boring.
Time was passing and Bill and Faye had to continue on their way to deliver more presents. I had to go home and take care of the dog and a group of feral felines that required feeding, petting and a little conversation. The city no longer allows wildlife rehabilitation within the city limits. The greenhouse is empty during the summer. My little office space that once doubled as nursery, now houses my computer. Time to use the knowledge and the images I gathered to write the things that bring joy to the heart and a smile to the lips. Alas,the first job in the new year is going to be soo mundane. Cleaning the swamp. May you all have a blessed New Year.

 

Commercials
(Alias ---But there’s more)

E.M.Hazell

If there was ever a plague of endemic proportion, afflicting an entire planetary civilization, it was, is and will be THE COMMERCIAL. We are exposed to that affliction every waking moment of our lives.
Commercials affect the way we live our daily existence. Take me for instance; I usually start my day watching the Daily News, a thirty minute program, presenting local, state, national and international happenings, some times of interest, more often than not innocuous and sometimes downright boring as well as incorrect.
The station breaks away from its presentation every five minutes to present five to six commercials. Mathematically speaking for a thirty minute program I receive 50% news and 50% of information about products I do not need and even if I need them, I certainly do not intend to purchase because a commercial tells me that I can’t live without it.
TV as well as Radio is only one small part of that commercial invasion launched by countless advertisement agencies mostly interested in access to your pocket book. There are newspapers and magazines with very little literary content and countless ads, targeting readers from kindergarten to fifth grade level, appealing to the narcissistically inclined individual and causing a sense of nausea within the thinking person. I gave up the daily local scandal sheet a long time ago when I realized that journalistic principles were no longer observed.
There is also the telephone. Whether you are on the do not call list or not, calls still wind up on your caller ID, most of them masquerading as blocked, unknown,
Charitable Contribution, etc etc etc. Some of those calls are made by what my friend Alexandra calls “—the scum of the earth.” There are the scammers who tell you that they are your bank representatives, and other concerns that have access to numbers that give access to your bank account. My bank traced one of those calls coming from Canada.
It gets even wilder on my computer. The most commonly used trap is the one that will promise a free down-load of your choice absolutely free. A professional hacker can use the path of that down-load to gain access to your e-mail. If you do your banking via computer, hackers attempt to gain access to all of your banking transition. An interesting documentary demonstrated exactly how easy it was to gain access to those important numbers as well as access to your e-mail account and to all the people listed there as friends, relatives and acquaintance. Within 30 seconds the hacker had enough information to employ an army of telemarketers with all the information vital to successful thieving.
Although I am cautious when I make a purchase on the internet I frequently find myself deluged with offers of lengthening a part of my anatomy that, by the nature of being female, I simply do not have. I tried once to respond to the individual whose name appeared on the e-mail with some well-chosen words only to find out that these people are shielded from receiving e-mail. Business concerns using that approach for monetary gain are equally shielded. Clarence taught me how to deal with that a long time ago. Clarence stated my grandmother’s philosophy in his own words. Nothing in life is free.
With that in mind I have decided to take a positive approach to the crass commercialism of the third millennium. If it shows up on the computer, delete. Don’t speak on the phone unless you’re spoken to by a friend, at least someone you know. Telephone solicitors are rarely honest and forthright. Use the trash-can on the computer for anything that even faintly smacks of soliciting. Return that mountain of over killed forest in your mailbox to the sender. I know these people are dense; one brick shy Gerry tells me and my grandmother refers to them as obnoxiously ignorant and generally not worth my attention. Above all I do try to have a positive attitude. “#&*$”@@#$%^&*”My editor tells me I can’t say that in my common language.

 

COMPUTEREASTER
By
E.M.Hazell

When I told Clarence that I wanted to do something EASTER for my computer I could almost see that puzzled expression on his face. The hesitation on the other end of the line told me that there was, shall we say a certain, well-justified grumble of distrust in his voice. After all, this wasn’t the first time that I bounced an idea of his well-ordered logical mind. But EASTER?
Hang on Guru! There is some method in this madness. I know that Easter is a little like Christmas with gifts like chocolates and stuff sort of making the rounds of the family circle. Well, it’s not really like giving, I explained. It was a little more like sacrifice in the traditional way. Easter requires a certain amount of sacrifice in the spirit of the celebration. Sacrifice first, joyful celebration later. My round of sacrifices began with the usual chores. Some refer to that as Spring-cleaning. I consider it sacrificial duty. That old wooden floor gets a coat of wax. At age 75, it’s a big sacrifice for me to get down on my hands and knees. And there are times when I wonder how I’ll pick myself back up. Dusting the bookshelves and all the other nooks and crannies, IT’S UP AND DOWN AND UP AND DOWN. Those are all sacrifices my friend. I’d rather go fishing. And then there is that Easter Dinner for the grown-ups. At my house they expect Sauerbraten and potato pancakes and things downright German. Cooking is a joy; it’s the cleanup after the mess I made that’s a big sacrifice. And so far I’ve only thought of the house and the adults. There are those little ones. That’s Easter eggs and chocolate bunnies and Easter egg hunts. Sacrifice here too, in the pocket book and the creative efforts that go in to making all those cute things that warrant all those ooohhhs and uuuuhhhs and aaaahs. There are four generations gathering at my house, and did I mention those non-human recipients. Try not to get tripped up by some fur ball underfoot, insisting on being waited on long before the celebration begins.
It is at this point that my guru is thankful for the state of bachelor-hood. And I admit there have been times in my life when I thought it would have been simpler to be a nun. But things are the way they are. Somewhere within myself I am grateful for all that I have and for all that I am. And that includes friends like Clarence and Faye.
Faye blessed me with the idea of working with Create-a-Card. So I go to my computer, and I make my little creative things. And that’s when I call Clarence and want to know how I can sacrifice for my friend, the computer.
“It’s a machine; It’s the person that runs the machine that counts.”
True Clarence, but it’s also my village and it’s my window to the world.
“Shall I make an Easter basket with Easter eggs?”
There was now the distinct sound of laughter on the other end of the line.
“The computer has Easter eggs!!!!”
Well OK Clarence. I didn’t know the computer had Easter eggs. But if you say so----
There is no doubt that Clarence is right. That is why he is the guru and I am the student.
“You want to do something for your computer for Easter try a disc clean up. Go to My Computer, left click and select your hard drive. Right click and go to properties. All the tools you need to make your computer feel better are at your little old fingertips. Get rid of excess baggage. Clean up your clutter on the desktop. That’ll make your computer feel a whole lot better.”
We both laughed. He was right of course. When was a guru ever NOT RIGHT!
But, on the other hand Clarence; There are those two, humongous ostrich eggs, bequeathed to me by a friend. What do you think? Never mind old friend, I know what you’re thinking. And so I’ll go to my computer and I click on my C drive, and I get out the tools and I defrag and I do a disc clean up. You’re right, I could swear my Window to the world suddenly got brighter.

 

Creatively Speaking
E.M.Hazell

I was not born with Da Vinci’s talent. Yet, once in awhile I have the urge to paint something great.
Nor will I ever be a famous photographer, though, once in awhile I come up with a good picture.
All of this has changed since the SCANNER entered my life. And again, I purchased the scanner as a tool that would allow me to scan a type-written manuscript in to the computer.
So far I have scanned about ten pages and there is of course the moment when I must scan the manuscript.
But the scanner offered other temptation. The scanner allowed me to recreate old photographs in a new way. More than that, the scanner allows me to take a walk in the woods and to gather little odds and ends. Now, that autumn is here and nature is in a decorative mood, it is possible to gather things in the backyard, or in the nearby park.
Being creative means to be able to play with sizes, shapes and colors and to make them into something pleasing to the eyes. The rich dark green of the oak leaf, the bright yellow leaf of the sweet gum, the red leaf of sumac or, very cautiously, the marvelous deep red of the poison ivy. Place on that a sprig of buck brush, and a stray blossom of a mum, a very small acorn and perhaps a dainty, feather from a bird.
Arrange all of that in a sort of careless manner and place it in your scanner.
I found out that things like these scan out more perfectly than any picture I have ever taken.
Take a few sprinkles of colored glitter, some stray beads, a few colored stars and perhaps some shapes, triangles and squares cut out of colored paper. Arrange them so that there is a center that the eye can focus on. And scan them.
Things that please you need to be saved in a folder where you can find them. Things that please you can be inserted in to any document, letters you write etc. Don’t insert tem on your income tax form. I understand the tax people lack a sense of humor and frown on creative impulses.
I usually insert on the top left corner of my letters. Flowers from the field, stray feathers, animal pictures and bits of ribbon an color. These things sort of personalize the impersonal white page.

 

Being There

E.M.Hazell

One of the main reasons for joining ICON for me was getting help for what I considered a very expensive, and at that point in my life, useless toy. My friend Jan Preston had persuaded me to purchase a computer. I was then and still am now a writer. The idea of using a computer for that purpose seemed more like a fairytale than a reality.
“Think of the paper you’re going to save,” Jan said. Considering re-writes, typos, carbon copies and mailing expenses, there was no doubt in my mind that I could save a lot; besides that Jan offered me at least three free lessons. It was a dream- come- true.
This dream turned out to be more like a nightmare than a reality. It was another friend, Francis Murray, who changed negative to positive.
“Why don’t you join ICON,” she said. She explained to me the importance of a group that actually assisted people like me in getting to use, what I almost determined to be useless.
Francis was right. I joined ICON. Again, at first I had my doubts. The people were friendly. The questions I was asked had little to do with what I needed or wanted. Exactly what was meant when I was asked what kind of a computer? A computer was a computer. The first person I talked to was kind and pleasant. The second person reassured me that I was undoubtedly a born idiot. I thought the whole thing was a waste of money and I was never coming back. Fay Patrick, that first gentle person to bid me welcome, felt I was justified. In leaving I heard her say:
“I wished he wouldn’t talk to people that way. We’ll never see her again.”
I knew she was talking about me and I was certain that she was right.
Then came that holiday. I sat in front of that computer and all that the computer was doing, was making dots. I called Jane to tell her that my computer had the measles. But Jane was out of town. In desperation I called one number on the newsletter published by ICON. After all, ICON promised to assist. I called Faye Patrick. Her voice was cheerful and she promised help. I had my doubts, but the doorbell rang thirty minutes later and there stood the little wizened gent with the funny grin on his face, the one who reassured me that I was a born idiot. He said his name was Clarence Gault. He entered and grumbled something about where the computer was, followed me to the little office, seated himself in front of the computer and within moments changed my computering from Stop to Go. He spent another hour or so, telling me how, what, where, when, why, and who created that marvelous combination of computer and operator.
That was many years ago. ICON has changed over the years. Today’s club member is rarely computer illiterate. For awhile I thought perhaps that the computer illiterate individual had become extinct like the dinosaur. But I was wrong.
It was that holiday again. My phone rang and the person on the other end had computer questions. There was that familiar bewilderment in that voice. I was searching for an answer to the question. And ever so slowly voices of my own teachers crept in to my mind. And then I knew what to say:
“Do you see those funny little pictures at the bottom of the screen on the monitor?”
“Yes!”
“We call them icons. Do you see the little picture with the big W?”
“Yes!”
“Click on the left side of the mouse!”
I could hear the excitement on the other end of the phone. I had been successful teaching the computer term icon to the person on the other end of the line. That was my only success. After thirty minutes of trying I found myself repeating the sentence that was said to me years ago.
“I can’t see what you’re seeing over the phone.”
I could have sworn that sleek black rocker in my office was actually rocking. There was even a slight tinkling sound of laughter permeating the swamp. Clarence’s pigeons had come home to roost. And now the shoe was on the other foot. Some things can’t be taught over the phone.
After that I made my first house call. I was wrong thinking that computer illiteracy had become extinct. It had just gone underground. ICON was still needed as much as ever to help those who are too shy to ask for help. In this day and age when people own all kinds of computerized gadgets it appears to be socially incorrect to admit that help is needed and wanted and hugely appreciated.
Jane changed from computers to real estate. Francis Murrah has gone from Missouri to Florida. Clarence has left this life. But there are other ICON members willing to step up to the plate.
It is my fervent wish that ICON still offers the kind of help that Clarence offered, that Mary offered, that Gerry offered, that Fay offered; the kind of help that changes the nightmare back to a dream fulfilled, and that somewhere a computer once again for one more person undergoes the metamorphosis from being a useless toy to becoming a window to the world.

 

BILL

By

E.M. Hazell

Every so often my beloved Grandmama, who manages to survive my self-created office-swamp, delights me with an intellectual exchange about the people in my life. This time we were talking about Bill.

In the beginning I only knew him as Bill, no rank, no status, no serial number. As it was then, so it is now. He greets me with a smile, a hand extended in friendship and softly murmurs:

“Please, sign in.” I do not like to sign in or wear a name badge. I like my anonymity. He gently makes me understand the importance of signing in and usually responds with:
“Thank you!”

His closest friends know and respect him as a self-made man. He wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He was only nine years old when his father passed. He provided financial support by earning money to assist with food and shelter for his five younger siblings. Long before he entered his teens he held down three jobs. While the other boys played ball and went fishing, he ran errands for the local butcher, had a paper route and performed clean-up chores. That same, dogged persistence he had when he fought for daily survival for his family, also allowed him to become a successful business man. It is that same strength of character that assisted him when he was there at the beginning of ICON. As one member said:
“What Bill didn’t do may not be as important as what Bill does.”

Bill does what he has always done. He is the heart and soul of ICON.
And how did he deal with administrative issues? The answer came from one of his closest friends:

“Bill was interested in people helping people. He preferred to deal with those issues by letting them die of old age rather than creating controversy.”

Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s was not nearly as important as creating a congenial atmosphere conducive to learning new skills and allaying old fears of failure and inadequacies. To Bill it was important to teach understanding the technical language. He made me understand that I use a vacuum sweeper even though I had no idea what made it work. I used the sewing machine in the same way and I drove a car even though I had no background in automotive mechanics. The computer, he felt was very much the same thing.

I still recall my innermost feelings when someone talked about ‘search engines’. The word ‘search brought up the concept of search lights and the word engines dredged up the concept of an airplane engine. How can you possibly install an engine that size in that little box that housed the computer.

Others ICON members like myself took courage and started to ask questions. Bill had a solution for that too. There were free classes available. Long term members remembered Bill’s attempt to have classes. Some were reluctant to go with the idea. It was thought that he could probably get less than forty responses. Well, as the old song goes:
“It ain’t necessarily so----“At his first try he received 400 responses.

The people who took the classes and came to the meeting felt united by a common cause. We all knew that we were going to learn an essential skill and in doing so we became more than members. We became friends. We laughed with joy as we overcame one hurdle after the other. We sometimes cried with frustration when we couldn’t overcome fast enough. We comforted each other and Bill comforted all of us. In time we learned to drive the ‘Hard Drive’ like we drove the car; cautiously persistent. All along from his quiet little corner Bill kept track and Bill kept book and Bill watched as the club increased. Among the members there were members of Mensa who knew me as former president of Missouri Ozark Mensa Region seven. Some of us were doctors, some of us were lawyers, some of us were teachers and some of us were house wives. Some of us were more famous, had more status had more wealth. That never got in the way of having more friendship, more compassion more willingness to help.

So, what did Bill do? Bill created the club, kept it alive, introduced new concepts, assisted in getting speakers. That Technical Day at the library did not spring up over night. It was the result careful planning, careful nurturing, and careful encouraging without bringing administrative duties to the foreground. Just as it is with the church; it’s not the building that makes it a church, it’s the people. ICON did not make the people; it is the people that make ICON.

And Grandmama was interested in knowing why all of this weighed so heavily on my mind. And so I told her of the phone calls I received from people who didn’t understand that last letter that arrived this week.
“Politics as usual” one caller stated. One of the people who called wanted to know why it was written? He too was a member of Mensa. Like myself he too at one time held the office of president of Mensa. And he had just one comment:
“Looks a lot like yellow journalism to me!”

As for myself? I am grateful for knowing Bill. Had it not been for Bill and his wife Faye, I would not have known Clarence. Without Clarence, without the club, without Bill and without Faye, in all possibility that first computer would have wound up in the trashcan and I would still be writing copy with my trusty typewriter. Those old black and white negatives would have gone in the trash as well. Instead, thanks to Gerry Balzer and thanks to Icon, those old negative are now a part of family heirlooms, my husband’s family, all four generations of them and mostly my own children. I can only speak as a member of one.

“THANK YOU BILL FOR BEING THERE”

 

CLICK CLICK CLICK

“It’s really very simple! All you have to do is click.”
That was how my son introduced me to photography with a digital camera. When I explained that to my computer guru, he just very dryly replied:
“All you ever wanted to do with a computer was write!”
All I saw in my mind were those days of waiting for the photo shop to develop my pictures. I was never good at simply drawing or sketching or painting. And I wanted to be able to do that. Photography was the next best thing. And there was always that expense of pictures that were out of focus, or just plain bad. And now my son told me of this marvelous new invention that would allow me to take pictures to my heart’s content. A floppy could hold as many as 40 pictures. Of course if I wanted to have better quality pictures, I would have to be content with half as many on one floppy. But the wonderful thing was that, once I had taken the pictures, all I had to do was put the floppy in the computer and: PRESTO pictures.
My son delivers crash courses in ‘picture-taking electronically’ in five minutes. And that usually goes in one ear and out the other. My computer guru delivers a more lengthy lecture in what he properly terms: graphics. My son installs a graphics program for me. And as he talks about it to me, it dawns on me that he is not talking about mud bricks. And then I laugh. My son wants to know why I’m laughing.
“There was this DJ some years ago,” I explain. ”He received a request from a lady who wanted to hear a song titled ‘MY DOPEY HAS A CINDER’. It took the D.J. awhile to figure out that she was talking about a tune called: MY ADOBE HACIENDA. And now I know that adobe referred to more than haciendas.
That has been several months ago. The little digital camera moved in next to all the other stuff that has been added since I first became a computer aficionado. That little camera has become my friend, my companion, my little eighth wonder of the world. I’ve taken pictures of spiders, of flowers, of animals, and, on rare occasions, of humans. Each time the floppy is full I take it to the computer. And then it’s Christmas. I glance at all those pictures, keep and discard and make a few more. Each time I do that, I smile and say to myself: ‘Sorry Mellers, no money from me today.”
“They’re still as big as a house,” my guru tells me. But I have a surprise for him. I can bounce those little cuties from one program to the other. I can make them web-proficient and I can e-mail them to my guru and they’ll download before he can groan and shake his head and say: ”Not again”. Of course I would not have gotten this far had it not been for my friend Frances insisting I join ICON, and for my ICON friends gently insisting that I become computer proficient. Thanks a lot folks: I’m almost there.

 

CP.A.P.
(Computer Abuse Police)

E.M.Hazell

I understand that ‘Computer Abuse’ may be at the heart of ‘Computer Crash’; at least that is what I have been told by my ‘Computer savvy’ friends. Of course I am under the impression that I never never ever abuse my computer. I share too many secrets, to many prize possessions with my computer. True, I have problems remembering the difference of File and Folder, although my guru never tires of telling all about the office and the cabinets and the files and the folders. I do comprehend that a whole bunch of files can be placed in a folder. And I do remember that a right-click on the Desk Top produces that little dialogue box that asks me if I want a new file or a new folder. That little manila envelope Icon is definitely a folder.
What comes after that gets merrily lost in whatever creative process I attempt? Consequently the little icon bulging with contents and known as My Documents has countless little items in it. The neatest folder is the one titled Icon Columns. All the stuff that I write is tucked away there and each little column calls itself a FILE. They are all alphabetically arranged like in a neat little folder in a neat little drawer in a neat little cabinet in a neat little office. The trouble is that this thing called neatness has never ever been successfully encrypted in my brain. Next to that Icon Folder is another folder titled ‘My Manuscripts’. A rational person would assume that all of my manuscripts are in there, neatly alphabetized. That can be anybody’s wishful thinking. True, there are two manuscripts, identifiable by title. After that, something strange happens. There all kinds of icons, indicating all kinds of things that are not manuscripts. Most of them I have learned to identify. If the icon is blue with a big blue W that could be a document. But I think the similarity ends right there. I often times I create small picture books. They are easier to create in Word where the pictures can be sized and numbered according to whatever purpose I have in mind.
That is where I am guilty of Computer Abuse. My guru grumbles and tells me that he can just hear the computer abuse police knocking at my door. My kind of book-making is created by trial and error, a little bit here and a little bit there and sometimes Word and I fight over a picture and then the picture just disappears. And since, according to my guru I am fond of making pictures as big as a house, it doesn’t take long for stuff to accumulate, add to that the fact that pictures in Photoshop format are not accepted by Word and no one knows where they disappear to.That poor little computer groans and moans about OVERLOAD.
All these things are called ‘computer abuse’ I am told. Grandmama agrees with the guru. I was not an orderly child. Not through any fault of my parents, mind you. They really tried. During the war I had a little suit-case packed and ready to take to the air-raid shelter. It was assumed that I packed important papers, a change of clothing and items necessary for survival, like soap and wash cloth and tooth brush. I wasn’t too worried about that. For me it was important to have my favorite books. When my mother became suspicious about the weight of my suitcase, that little suitcase was opened up and it held everything except the toothbrush the soap and the underwear. I couldn’t make my parents understand that you could always get underwear, but if you lost a favorite book halfway through reading it, you really couldn’t replace it as quickly as underwear.
I suppose the neat police are the same all through one’s life. I am really trying hard not to abuse my beloved computer too much. I’d really hate the thought of someone gaining entry to my files and finding dragons and posies and pictures of unusual things, weeds the guru tells me with a smile.
I promise myself that tomorrow I’ll go through everything name or no-name and delete and defrag and above all, I shall address my computer correctly and I shall use a thing called TIF for pictures that go with words in WORD. It’s called house-cleaning, but let’s face it: I never enjoyed house-cleaning and I seriously doubt that I ever will.