By TERRY CUMMINS
One hundred years ago the small country newspaper we read to keep informed printed this editorial comment: “The Wright brothers continue to put it over on the American people with their flying machine. This aeroplane business is getting to be a practical joke.” Back in 1909 if you’d predicted that in 60 years man would go to the moon, you’d be locked up in a closet. When we landed on the moon, Neil Armstrong hit a golf ball, and not much else has come of it since.
The place where I grew up stayed about a hundred years behind the times. We didn’t see the need to get in a hurry. All the new developments back then were called “progress.” One big problem with progress was that you had to work like a dog and were always in a hurry to keep on top of the latest. You had to spend good money to run water through your house. We had plenty of pure, cool water in the well on one side of the house and a big cistern on the other. All we needed was two buckets and a washtub. The city people who had bathrooms took too many baths anyway. It dried out their skin and most of them always looked peeked and puny.
Then when they shot communication satellites up in space it changed everything. Before then people gave an honest day’s work. You can’t work with one hand when a cell phone has grown into your other hand like a bad case of warts. Some people have tried working with both hands while twisting their heads over to pin a cell phone between their jaw and shoulder blade, but this can cause a deformity. I’m surprised progress hasn’t developed something like a football helmet with a built-in satellite receptor to put over your head, so you can use both hands while talking incessantly at the same time. It’s about like chewing gum while getting your teeth cleaned. A helmet would also protect your head from those of us, who get real edgy listening to your soap-opera personal life. I’ve wanted to use a ball bat to stop listening to a heated conversation about whether to pick up Mexican or Chinese.
Yes, instant communication with loved ones, your banker and lawyer are important, but when answering a ding-a-ling every few minutes, how do we ever find the time to communicate with our own hearts, minds and souls? Back in the old days, before e-mail, blogs, text messaging, Tweets, Face and You books and tubes, we used the U.S. Mail system. It was a government-run program back when government had some sense. And you could always trust the mailman. He’d ride a mule, wade cricks, and crank up old Betsy to make sure you got the letter from Aunt Minnie, but times have changed. If Aunt Minnie wants to contact me, she can put a laptop in her lap and throw away her darning needles, which kept her nerves from getting jumpy.
A few year’s later, the same country editorialist, who thought flying was for the birds, wrote: “That feller building those restaurants underneath a set of golden arches must be out of his mind. Does he think people are going to drive up to a window, reach in and grab a bag of French potatoes, a double slab of meat and a pint of scolding coffee in a paper cup, which could spill and cause wrecks?”
Progress moved on rapidly, but is in danger of crashing now that man is a slave to hand-helds. Technology would make life easier, they said. Washing machines replaced the scrub board, Smart Balance replaced the butter churn, and video games replaced the checkerboard. When the TV, PC and Blackberry came into our lives, something had to go.
What went was the family meal. Do you know where your children are when it’s time for breakfast, dinner and supper? We did before tech, because our children were at the kitchen table with a napkin in their laps and utensils in their hands. We don’t teach fork etiquette anymore or table manners, because we eat on the go, either in the living room, bedroom, on a car seat or walking out the door “If you spill nacho dip on your laptop again, I’m not buying another one.” Wanna bet? When the family meal vanished like the floppy disk did, society began to deteriorate. (I’m so worked up, but am out of space. To be continued.)
Contact TLCTLC@AOL.com, but not during a family meal.
