Big Brother is Listening

 

 

Paranoia is not one of my problems.

I have never thought that “they” are out to get us. Cheat us. Control us. I hear a lot of political discussions about “they” and it’s always about the government and how they are using their records, their knowledge, to “keep us in place.” Puh-leez.

Through a long lifetime, I’ve realized that the government isn’t organized enough to do that. The right and left hand don’t always talk to each other. Tom O’Brien used to call the government the “Gang that Couldn’t Shoot Straight.” So, I don’t waste my time worrying about it.

But now I have a concern. Like many people we have a household assistant – Alexa. The only problem is when we mention Alix, my daughter. Alexa jumps in when she hears what she thinks is her name and whips into action. I usually reply, “Alexa, quiet.” And then I wonder, for the 57 th time, why I am talking to a machine that I didn’t invite to chat.

Eventually, I became aware that Alexa was listening all the time, that Big Tech has its ears open. One day we were in the kitchen talking about vegetables. Being seniors when we married ten years ago, there are still many things Dear Richard and I don’t know about each other. We were discussing eggplant, which is something neither of us crave on a regular basis. Or ever.

That night when I checked my computer, I had eggplant recipes in my email inbox. Are you kidding me? Alexa listened, and that little gossip passed our chat on to her cyber buddies. I’m surprised there weren’t vegetable seed catalogues in my inbox. However, Walmart did weigh in, listing the ingredients in the Eggplant Parmesan recipe, and how readily available they are in our local Superstore. Yikes!

About six weeks ago we unplugged Alexa. We didn’t banish her because of bad behavior. We had our cable and internet service upgraded to a wireless installation, hoping for improvement in both function and speed.

The service guy messed with the modem, recalibrating all its little thingies. He rebooted our TV, then left us to finish the work – the hooking up the printer, the desktop, two laptops, and Alexa. I just never got back to Alexa. The little wench is probably still crying in the corner. I’ll get to her as soon as I can remember how.

But now, even without Big Sister Alexa listening, we have another problem. It seems that “Big Brother” has taken over her duties. He moved into our house soon after our wireless upgrade. He never pays rent, he never takes a bath, and I guess he eats out. But he is listening. To everything.

Last month, Richard and I began discussions in the den about needing a new mattress. With work schedules, the holidays, and travel, we haven’t made it to a mattress store yet. But it’s not like we haven’t been invited. Following our first conversation, I woke up to a morning email from the Sleep Foundation. They wanted to educate me.

The next day I received email from the Sleep institute of America. They must have triggered the sleep disorder people who want to cure my nonexistent sleep apnea. Then came the targeted ads for CPAP devices to treat my phantom apnea, Fuggedaboudit.

All that was minor compared to the mattress hawkers. We haven’t made a purchase yet, but at least every other day we get personalized ads, infomercials, and videos for mattresses. You name it, we’ve heard from them. Sleep Number, Saatva (who?), Serta, Stearns & Foster, Dream Cloud, yada, yada, yada.

And now I’m left with more decisions than I ever knew I should consider. I naively thought we would walk into a mattress store, take our shoes off, and test drive a few pillow-tops. Now the mattress purveyors want me to consider gel content, memory foam, cooling, and innerspring wraps. Geesh.

The techies I have talked to say that our smart television is connected to the internet. The internet gives easy access to numerous streaming services in addition to being hooked up with our computers. Hulu, Netflix, Paramount and that pesky Peacock all have their ears on 24/7 and are passing around their gathered info? I dunno.

If they are eavesdropping, they must know that I struggle with my schedule. Someday soon, time management consultants will email me about organizing my day so I’m not still in my jammies at noon. Or, “We’ve noticed that you often make your bed after lunch rather than after breakfast. We’d like to help you with this scheduling problem.” Three Time Management Consultants will offer services. Then come the ads for free introductory planning classes. What’s next? I’ll bet it’s an ad for half-price pajamas.

 Now that would make me paranoid.

 

 

Christmas Kindness Has No Expiration Date

 

 

            It’s been 18 years since we sent trail mix to Iraq.

My son, Bart, was a Marine pilot. He flew the Cobra gunship, an attack helicopter that protected the Marines on the ground. A nasty machine. Having been gone for months, his squadron was deployed to Al Asad, Iraq during Christmas, 2005. His third deployment in three years.

While making family Christmas at home, I was missing him terribly – even accepted that his seat at the Christmas dinner table would be empty. I couldn’t imagine listening to “White Christmas” while living in that hostile desert. And I was having trouble with the constant worry and our inability to do anything about it.

One night watching CNN, the headline zipper running across the bottom of the screen read “Two-man helicopter down in Fallujah.” Both his dad and I stopped breathing. We knew Bart was in Iraq. We didn’t know exactly where he was at any one time. There was no more information. And there was no sleep as every possible scenario played out in our over-hyped imaginations.

When the morning brought no updates, Tom started digging through news sources. He finally learned the crash was an Army Blackhawk. Breathing a sigh of relief, I also immediately thought, if the news is OK for us, it’s got to be unbearable for two other families.

Finally, all of my anxiety bubbled up into action. I decided I wanted him and “his guys” to have something from home for Christmas. That whimsy led to thinking about the whole maintenance group that worked for Bart – 89 of them. What could we do that would bring them a smile?

First, I checked with the post office to determine the last date of shipping to the APO (Army Post Office). The APO then delivers, world-wide, directly to the military. It was the beginning of December as I learned we had less than a week to ship on-time.

Between buying and begging, and leaning on friends, we put together 89 packages. Whirley Industries of Warren donated their largest covered beverage mug with a snappy flag design. We packed the mugs with playing cards, candy canes, gum, and zip-locks filled with homemade trail mix. We all baked chocolate chip cookie bars, figuring that ordinary cookies would crumble. I can no longer remember the rest of the mugs contents, but they were full – and as it turned out – heavy.

Bart had forwarded the names of all the guys, so each 20-ounce mug was personally labelled.

Everyone baked the cookie bars from the same recipe, although Suzie and her friend Luann, both from Sugar Grove, delivered double batches of goodies. Together in my kitchen, four of us packaged the bars, trail mix and stuffed the big mugs. Actually, I never met Luann – she was Suzie’s good and generous friend.

I added three huge cans of popcorn and pretzels, one to each of the three v-e-r-r-r-y large boxes. Box #1, labeled to be opened first, contained a note and a Santa hat. I have no memory of how I got them into the post office. I probably blotted it out.

Around the end of January, I received a picture showing Captain O’Brien in camouflage and a Santa hat. Grinning. The guys all clustered around for a quick group shot. “Aw gee, Cap’n do we have to?” Yes, they did.

A few weeks later, all the baking ladies received a new American flag in the mail. Boxed flags were routinely flown over Iraq during missions to thank supportive friends back home. They were accompanied by certificates of explanation and thanks. My baking friends were stunned.

I was reminded of this story last week as a lady purchased a book at one of my signing events. When I asked if she wanted it inscribed, she said, “Yes, please. To Luann,” and she spelled it. Then she leaned in a bit and said, “You know, I still fly the flag that your son sent me, every day the weather is good.” She is proud of it.

I replied, “Luann? You’re Suzie’s friend Luann?” I couldn’t believe it. She is THAT Luann. Of the double cookie batches. From 18 years ago.

After this Christmas, I’m going to grab her for some lunch and catch up.

Luann is now 92. Still baking, working at church, still involved. The type of person that when a stranger asked her friend for help, she volunteered, “Count me in too.” The Marines should have recruited women much sooner.

 

 

Giving birth to a book isn’t for wimps

 

Giving birth to a book isn’t for wimps

The crazy idea of writing a book did not surface early. I had to wait until sanity abandoned me. 

A devoted reader since I was a kid, I always thought that books were the result of brilliant minds, great imaginations, and writerly skills. Ordinary people like me didn’t write books.

But you know – you live long enough and a lot happens. Some of it is worth writing down. The book I’ve just published, Rounding Third, is named for where I am now in that long life – this autumn of my years.

There are seven very heavy boxes in my front hall. At my age, I do not get excited by very much. Opening the top box and holding my book was thrilling, absolutely amazing. Can this actual, real book be mine? It weighs 11 ounces and the cover has a silky matte finish. It has my name on it, my picture is on the back, and it’s filled with experiences that I lived. It contains eleven ounces of a phantasmagorical life and the whackadoodle ideas that tumbled around in my head – for years. They gradually spilled out on paper. Putting this book together has been a challenging way to stay young!

The cover is brightly colored, eye-catching for its whimsy. The headless, running woman in culottes who is rounding third base in her red high heels is no longer me. But she used to be.

Early on, an acquaintance commented, “But I’ve never seen you in red high heels, really high heels.”

I replied, “You’re right. I haven’t run in high heels since I was in my 40s. And since you and I did not meet until our 60s, you missed a whole generation of high kickin’.”

“Then why did you put red high heels on the cover?” she asked.

With great memories bubbling up, I smiled at her, “’Cuz I really, really like them.”

I started writing for the Warren paper in 2004. As the years went on, the columns appeared biweekly, then weekly. Then a few years ago, I was published weekly in the Jamestown and Dunkirk regional papers as well. I began to hear from a larger body of readers. And frankly, that’s really nice. It makes you feel as if some of those late nights and miserable edit sessions are worth it.

As the notebooks of columns grew thicker, I occasionally mused about putting some together in a book, but couldn’t imagine who would read it. Or why.

I’d always thought that the notebooks might get discovered some attic rainy day by great-grandchildren – who would proceed into a gigglefest.

            Then I started hearing from some nice readers out there. Many who laughed with my incompetencies – seeing themselves. Some who shed a tear, and decided to share. Once in a while, there were questions about when the book would appear. I laughed it off for a long time, not feeling worthy or capable.

Then Covid showed up the second time and I was home from the hospital again. Down and out. Again. Getting better takes time – which I finally decided was book time. Now or never.

Hey! How hard could it be? I have files with hundreds and hundreds of these dribblings.

Already written. Already published. I would only have to pick out my favorite 75 and slap them together under a cover. Right? Like I said, I wasn’t very capable. I’m often delusional.

            It’s a long process. The process demands dedication and timing. And if you self-publish as I have, it requires an infusion of dollars.

I never once thought of sending it to a publisher. I don’t have the number of years left that it takes to break through the pile of rejection slips. The big houses are looking for a Doris Kearns Goodwin collection. I am a Mrs. Nobody from Podunk with essentially short stories – fun, warm, but nevertheless, hometown short stories.

I began by reading ALL the hundreds of columns I have written. Then I chose eight “alpha readers” who volunteered to read, comment, and grade 120 of my chosen columns. Next, with my newly-vetted collection, my wallet, and a don’t-look-back-now attitude, I plunged. I hired a professional editor, a publishing consultant and a local illustrator. And we all put together, beginning last April, this 11-ounce miracle.

It does not lie in my arms wiggling its toes. It is not the gift to the world that my children are. But it is a lot better than a few of my report cards.  I’ll accept that much satisfaction.

In this life, I was lucky. I didn’t get thrown out at first. And here I am, Rounding Third with a book in my hand.

 Maybe I should buy some sneakers. Red ones.