Author: VievesVine

writer, blogger, columnist

Broken bones

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Our daughter Jordan broke her hand. To be clear, she didn’t break her hand. Jordan was no more responsible for her fractures than other family members who have suffered broken somethings.

Consider our son Trey when he was three. He didn’t break his leg; a merry-go-round did. When Trey tried to jump off, the merry-go-round grabbed his leg and wouldn’t let go. A few years ago, a tennis court refused to catch my fall and broke my wrist.

Jordan had traveled to Morocco and Spain on vacation. The dune buggy she drove across the desert didn’t take an out-of-control spin that caused the fractures. The camel she rode didn’t throw her off or bite her—can’t blame the camel. And she was close, but not close enough to a cobra’s dance for the snake to squeeze her hand until, well, crack.

The guilty culprit? A heavy, hardshell suitcase.

After Jordan’s plane landed back in the states, she boarded a train from Washington, DC to Richmond, VA. She located her seat and hoisted her suitcase up to the overhead luggage rack.

Not wanting the adventures to end, the runaway suitcase slid from the rack toward an innocent woman’s head. In one awkward lunge, our daughter saved the woman, but the suitcase crushed Jordan’s hand.

OK. Those weren’t my daughter’s exact words, but I know that’s what happened. Moms always know.

When the train whistled its arrival to Richmond, our daughter took a Lyft to the nearest ER. Kind fellow passengers helped her with the unruly suitcase and additional bags.

Jordan called us from the ER’s waiting room.

“Ugh…I broke three bones,” she said. “I knew immediately it was broken.”

“Everything will be fine,” said Gary.

“I’m so angry at myself,” Jordan said. “I’ve put cases on overhead racks a hundred times. I should have made sure it was secure.”

“It’s not your fault,” I sympathized. “No one can prepare for an attack by a merry-go-round or a tennis court, much less a rogue suitcase.”

OK. Maybe I didn’t put it quite like that, but it’s a true statement.

Maybe I said: “Accidents are ‘accidents’ because they are unexpected. It’s not like you planned for your suitcase to fall or that you expected to go home tonight with a broken hand.”

Or that the fractures would require surgery.

“I’m an adult. You don’t need to come,” Jordan insisted.

To which any parent’s reply is, “Ha. Ha. Ha, ha, ha.”

Gary insisted on going for two reasons. For one, he, the veterinarian in the family, would not have been happy with my substandard answers to his medical questions. My husband preferred to hear details firsthand (pun intended). For two, Gary loves the coffee at the café in our daughter’s building.

I admit there’s an outside chance he may have wanted to wrap his girl in a Dad-sized hug and let her know all would be well.

And it will—thanks to the surgeon who placed one long screw in Jordan’s 4th metacarpal, another in the 5th metacarpal, and performed a proximal phalanx screw fixation on the middle finger.

Don’t be impressed by my use of medical terminology. I sent the X-Ray to my friend Doyle, who also happens to be an orthopedic expert. Those words are his, not mine.

I make up for my lack of medical expertise with my ability for finding positives in negatives. I told my daughter, “Be glad the injury didn’t happen before or during your trip. Thank God it’s your left hand. Best of all, the innocent woman left the train—head intact.”

Jordan and the bandaged hand she didn’t break have returned to work and the gym. The rogue suitcase? Hiding in a closet, no doubt.

Last paddle

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The email read, “Time to relocate boats to the other side of the lake.”

“Ask Ben. He’ll take care of it,” said Gary.

My husband had called from our porch in SC while I sat at my mother’s round kitchen table in WV. Reverse our locations, and he would have stored our canoe without a word.

Ask Ben?

I could, but I wouldn’t.

Ben, my niece Taylor’s husband feels more like a nephew than a “niece Taylor’s husband.” When he and Taylor aren’t working, they’re juggling soccer and swim practices, attending matches and meets, volunteering in concession stands—doing the things parents do.

I headed back to our “castle” above the lake. Before I unlocked the door, my brother Donald texted, “Mom said you’re going to rack the canoe. Let me know if you need help.”

“I will,” I said.

But I wouldn’t.

I looked forward to an end-of-season paddle across the lake. Plus, I’d find out if my dumbbell and squat routines were worth the time.

Oral Lake is not a seemingly endless expanse of water like Lake Norman, NC where I once ran out of gas on a wave runner in a sea of nowhere. That could never, as in ever, happen on Oral Lake.

For one, I can stand on the swimming dock at our lake and see land on both ends.

For two, jet skis and watercraft with more than a trolling motor are forbidden. We swim, fish, row, canoe, and paddleboard.

I let myself into the castle, grabbed a paddle, and headed down the hill to the deserted lake and our ancient, green, two-seater canoe.

I sported a pale pink summer hoodie and lightweight grey cargo pants; the same uniform I wore to hike miles of trails at Yellowstone last September. I congratulated myself on having already been dressed for the task—until I saw the hull, full of rainwater and fallen leaves.

I glanced at my new—white—tennis shoes. Ugh.

I could have trudged back up the hill to swap for an old pair.

I could have, but I didn’t.

Grunting, I lugged the canoe onto the dock and leaned it sideways to dump as much water and debris as possible. Sliding it back into the water, I balanced the boat with the paddle and climbed in, splaying my shoes away from the leftover muck.

I paddled under the setting sun in the azure sky and paused to admire a couple of giant grass carp and shrinking yellow-green lily pads floating here and there.

When I reached the ramp, I paddled backward onto the cement slab. I pulled off my shoes, stuffed my socks inside, and threw them to shore. Rolling up my pant legs, I threw one leg over the canoe into the water, and—YIKES—slipped on the slimy concrete. How I avoided going for a swim remains a mystery.

On dry ground, I managed to get the 75 lb. canoe to the two-story rack by pulling…grunting… dragging…resting—repeat. My final challenge? Hauling the boat up and onto the widest of the two spots left on the second tier.

I lifted the bow, heaving it to a plank on the first tier, then pushing and shimming the stern to work the bow higher. When the darn thing turned sideways, I wiped my brow with my mud-stained sleeve and said to myself, “Self, you can right that ship when it’s on the rack.”

Which is what I did once I got it there—by pulling and tugging while standing on rowboat bottoms, then climbing to the second-tier planks and heaving with all my might. I made my way back to the grass, lifted the stern, and—halleluiah—pushed the canoe across the rack.

Time to relocate boats to the other side of the lake?

No problem.

Dumb Blonde

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Everybody and her sisters have written about Dolly all week. 

It matters not. I’m going to have my say.

The thing is—I was not always a Dolly Parton fan. My parents loved her. My teenage self? Not so much. But then, my teenage self was not a country music fan. Absolutely not.

“Dumb Blonde” was Dolly’s first hit. The song peaked at #24 on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart in 1967. I was too young to know who she was, but the title describes exactly what I thought of her in my teen years. To me, the over-stacked, cake-faced, bleach blonde was a fake, a fraud, a one-woman circus.

Talk about judging by appearance only.

Little did I know my path would soon lead to a crash course in country music and its stars. When Gary and I married, we moved to Alabama. He started veterinary school. I took a job as the morning drive time DJ for a—get ready—country radio station. 

That meant I would be spinning records dedicated to the music genre I despised. I would be talking about bands and solo artists I knew nothing—and I mean nothing—about.

Before I signed on for my first shift, I went out and bought every country music magazine I could find. Thus, began my education and a steady diet of humble pie.

It didn’t take long for me to realize I had never really listened to the songs. I had been a “turn off the knob as soon as the notes sounded country” kind of girl. 

I flipped on the microphone switch Monday through Friday mornings and played record after record (look it up). Into my headphones streamed one amazing story after another, all set to music.

I began to appreciate the talents of country artists and their writers. That Dolly Parton was both was another surprise I discovered during my “Get your head outta bed” country DJ days.

Dolly penned over 3,000 songs including 25 of her own number one solo hits. More than 500 of her compositions were recorded either by her or other artists. Songs like “Waltz Me to Heaven” for Waylon Jennings and “The Stranger” for Kenny Rogers. “I Will Always Love You” soared to number one for Dolly and, later, Whitney Houston.

A few years ago, a gift I gave my mother became one of the highlights of her life and mine: tickets for a Dolly concert. Before the big night, I said to myself, “Self, Dolly is older now, and I doubt she’ll perform for much more than an hour, but it will be fun.”

Again, Dolly proved me wrong.

She blazed onto the stage in her wig, rhinestones, and five-inch heels. She sang, told stories, and I lost count of how many instruments she played: guitar, banjo, drums, saxophone, keyboard, dulcimer….

After the first hour and fifteen minutes, the entertainer of entertainers took a 10-minute break. Wearing a brand-new outfit, she returned and held her audience captive for another hour and fifteen minutes. It was, without a doubt, the most entertaining concert I’ve had the pleasure to experience. 

Dumb blonde? 

More like a woman who wore the literal “Coat of Many Colors.” Dolly was a gifted singer, brilliant songwriter, vibrant storyteller, incredible musician, talented actress, generous humanitarian, and shrewd businesswoman. Her love for her family knew no bounds, and her dedication to Christ was no secret.

Truth reigned through the lyrics Dolly wrote and sang in her 1967 hit:  

“…Just because I’m blonde don’t think I’m dumb

‘Cause this dumb blonde ain’t nobody’s fool…

…And you know if there’s one thing this blonde has learned

Blondes have more fun….”

That you did, Dolly, and thanks to you, so did we.

Lawn Mowing Men

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“You’ve got to see this,” said my husband, Gary. He marched me to the back door, held it open, and said, “Look at that!”

I looked. I didn’t see a snake. The chipmunk who makes a game of terrorizing our yard was nowhere in sight, nor was the skunk who let his presence be known one night last week. I saw nothing.

“The grass, Gen, the grass,” said Gary.

What is it with men and grass? They complain and moan about how fast it grows and having to cut it but are unable to just let it go. Whenever they have a free moment in good weather, they can’t do anything or go anywhere because: “I have to cut the grass.”

It’s all a ruse. That’s right. The relationship between a man and his yard is really a love affair. He whines about cutting grass, but he looks forward to the peace a droning mower affords. The office can’t find him. His kids can’t bug him. His wife can’t nag him. 

It’s just the man, his mower, and the grass.

He plugs in his earbuds and listens to whatever he wants to hear.

Gary probably mows to Led Zeppelin or Aerosmith or Bryan Adams or Bob Seger. Or maybe Chicago, the Eagles, the Kinks, or the Guess Who—depending on his mowing mood.

On a rainy day, all he can think about is how tall the green stuff will grow overnight. It wouldn’t surprise me to discover he sneaks out while I’m asleep to measure the grass with a ruler under the moonlight. I’ll bet he’s got a growth chart for the backyard somewhere hidden under his tools in the garage.

A friend of ours who passes off as a darn good dentist also lives on a farm. So, he dreads working in the fields during his downtime, right? Ha. Ha. Ha, ha, ha. Climbing aboard his tractor and cutting hay—that’s his favorite pastime. 

Hay is “grass that has been mown and dried for use as fodder.” In other words, our friend loves to cut grass. When he’s late for picnics or other social functions, his wife Becky says, “Oh, that Greg. He loses track of time when he’s out cutting hay.” 

Just can’t get the man off his tractor.

Last spring, Gary went back and forth debating over whether to invest in a new lawnmower. His loyal Snapper was more than 21 years old. My husband wound up buying a new mower but couldn’t part with the old one.  He says he needs it for backup, that it’s still better quality than the new model.

“It’s solid,” said my husband. “They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”

I’m telling your he’s attached to it in the same way he is to his high school football cleats—the ones he wears when he mows.

We arrived home from our beach week to discover the man he hired had not cut the grass in our absence. Gary stomped around for a few minutes before going straight out to attack the lawn. The next day, I was still looking for wild animals when he said, “Look at that. Does it look to you like I mowed it yesterday?”

On Friday, as we pulled out of the driveway, he surveyed the yard—no kidding—and said, “Am I ever glad I go the grass mowed. I had to raise the wheels up because it was so high when we got back. Do you believe I’ve mowed the grass three times in 11 days? Three times!”

We go through the same ritual once—sometimes twice—a week. Gary grumbles as he heads out the door to cut the grass. I say, “If you hate it so much, why don’t you hire someone to do it? Think of all the time you would have for other things.”

He acts like he doesn’t, but, oh, he hears me. A man, his mower, and the grass. Make no mistake. It’s a love affair.

Dying thoughts

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Sometimes Gary and I talk about death. 

OK. I mention death now and then. Gary talks more of Eternity. But last I checked you’ve got to do one to get to the other. 

I’m not a Genny-downer, not even close. I just say things that come to mind. Like when I peek into my husband’s study and see he is so locked into whatever is in front of him, he may forget to come out.

“When I die, you’ll need to set a timer to remind you to take breaks—get out of this room, and stretch your legs,” I tell him.

He just smiles, but I mean it.

It isn’t that Gary never leaves the house. He hits the gym often and goes for walks on a regular basis. But the study is his absolute, hands down, favorite room. Once he cozies in, he’s all in. It’s my job to extract him from its clutches. 

Who will step in after I’ve checked out?

That’s why I tell the kids, “If I die, you’ve got to get your dad’s nose out of the book he’s reading and take him to a baseball game, a museum, or a park—anywhere.”

“Noooo, don’t say that!” they wail. “Stop being morbid.” 

What they call morbid, I call realistic. 

Sometimes, Gary walks through a room while I’m cleaning window blinds.

“When I’m gone, go over these with a Swiffer twice a month or they’ll get ahead of you in a hurry. And clean under the toilet rims. Or I guess you could hire a cleaning service.”

He just keeps walking. 

Oh, well, at least I know he’ll run the vacuum cleaner occasionally. And he won’t starve. Gary’s a good cook.

Too bad the poor guy was cursed with a wife whose hands and feet have only known warmth during her three pregnancies. My blood circulation stops cold at my wrists and ankles. 

Sometimes, after we’ve turned in for the night, I croon, “Want me to put my foot on your leg?” 

“Nooooo,” he laughs and rolls away.

That’s when I say, “You won’t know if I die in my sleep because my hands and feet are always ice cold. Don’t call 911 until you’re sure I’m dead.”

I got that last bit from my grandmother.  She used to pull my 12-year-old self close, look me in the eyes, and say, “Genny Ann, promise me you’ll make sure I’m really dead before you let them take me away.”

Shivers ran through me the first time Grandma said those words. People could be mistaken for dead when they’re still alive? Yikes.

I’ve given Gary the usual instructions. A modest service. No viewing. (I don’t want anyone looking at me if I can’t look back.) 

Cremation, probably, though I could still change my mind. If I go to the crematory, put me in a tennis shoe box when they send me back. No expensive urn, please. 

There are plenty of empty shoe boxes on the closet floor behind my clothes. Yes, a tennis shoe box is perfect for storing me until I’m scattered hither and yon.

Speaking of which, I’ve told my husband, “When I punch my ticket to Heaven, keep the traditions going with the kids and grands.” 

Cookie parties. Christmas stockings. Christmas lights. “The Quiet Man” on St. Patrick’s Day. The Fourth of July at the lake.

Our girls will help him.

I’ve shared these dying thoughts, not often, but more than once. Still, I’m not convinced Gary has tuned in. 

“Can you tell me the things I’ve said about when I die?” I asked recently.

He rolled his eyes and said, “Burn your journals.”  

If I die, will someone please send this column to my husband?

Life is a box…

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Forrest Gump’s mama was onto something when she said, “Life is a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

It’s better not to know, at least for me. I’d waste too much time worrying about what I most dreaded, the imminent Almond Creams, Butter Creams, Orange Creams, and—the worst—Liquid Cherries.

My single-minded efforts to change my fate and sidestep life’s unpalatable surprises would keep me from fully embracing the Chocolate Fudge, Coconut Crunch Cups, and Caramel Cordials that came my way.

Had I listened to my husband, I might have missed out on the bits and pieces of “Forrest Gump” wisdom. After viewing a preview for the film, Gary said, “Looks ridiculous. I’m not spending money on that one.” 

OK. Fine. 

I asked my dad to go with me.

Gary eventually saw the movie. I dragged him to the theatre and said, “You might like it.”

He did.

But I digress.

By the time Dad and I took our seats for that July matinee, he had been declared healed from a bout with cancer. He had no idea he was on the cusp of a second, similar diagnosis, no relation to the first.

In other words, Dad had already swallowed his fair share of those wretched “butter creams,” in the forms of surgery, chemo, and radiation. But like Forrest Gump, my father had a knack for finding positives in any situation and taught us to do the same.

If my brothers or I said a classmate bullied us, Dad said, “We need to pray for him (or her).” 

If we complained about a demanding teacher or coach, he said, “When it’s too tough for everyone else, it’s just right for me.”

Dad also could summon a laugh at a moment’s notice. He often kept his sense of humor intact when righting our wrongs. 

If one of my brothers misbehaved, Dad playfully warned, “Cross my line one more time, and I’m sending you to Pruntytown.” 

Pruntytown (in Pruntytown, WV) was a reform school for wayward boys that employed military discipline to teach self-control. My girl status earned me an exemption. And Dad chuckled every time he threatened. Still, the mere mention of Pruntytown gave me a shiver.

At the theatre near us, Dad and I relaxed back in our seats with popcorn and zero expectations. “Forrest Gump”unfolded on the big screen and wooed us in. We subconsciously crossed the screen’s barrier and become part of the story.  

Dad and I laughed. We cried. We said not a word when the final credits rolled, as though the slightest whisper might sever the magic. Given the choice, we would have remained in our seats and watched the film all over again.

A few years later, after enduring treatments following his second cancer diagnosis, a terminal Liquid Cherry found its way into Dad’s box of chocolates.

His response?

“Don’t cry for me,” he said. “God has blessed my life. I’ve had so many blessings.”

My father chose to focus on the parts of his box that had delivered countless Chocolate Fudge-Coconut Crunch-Caramel Cordial moments. The day we saw “Forrest Gump” together was a triple sweet one. 

After Dad received the incurable diagnosis, our parents called a family meeting.

“I want you to know I’ve arranged to be buried at the National Cemetery in Pruntytown,” he said.

In a flash, my brother Donald said, “Pruntytown? Pruntytown? All those years, you told us we were headed to Pruntytown, and you’re the one who’s going to wind up there!”

Laughter filled every pocket of air in Mom’s kitchen, Dad laughing the longest.

Here’s the thing about life’s box of chocolates: we can’t spit out the bites we don’t want, but we can choose to make the best of even the bitterest of them.

The berries

On By VievesVineIn Everyday Life, Friends & Family2 Comments

After taking a dip in the lake on a warm July evening, I took Louisa’s hand, and we hiked up to our castle on the hill. Our castle is our home away from home, though some mistake it for a cabin.

When my three-year-old grand and I reached the smooth fieldstone steps, we bumped into Bartholomew. Bartholomew is our resident toad. He lives in his own castle, deep in the cracks between the rocks that form a wall along the back of ours.

“Look, Louisa, there’s Bartholomew,” I said. “He’s come out to say ‘Hello’ to you.”

Louisa crouched low and tilted her head forward to have a better look. 

“Can I pat him?” she asked.

“Sure.”

The toddler reached out and lightly stroked the toad’s bumpy back with her index finger.

Bartholomew didn’t hop away until Louisa caressed his leathery skin a second time. 

My baby grand giggled when I said, “Wow, Louisa, Bartholomew thinks you’re the berries!”

I shared this story with some friends in South Carolina and discovered they had never heard the expression: “You’re the berries.”

“You’re the berries is the same as telling someone she is the bee’s knees or the bomb.com or, more simply put, the best,” I said. 

If you look up the phrase, experts claim it’s slang from the 1920s, not tied to any particular region in the U.S.  It says the same thing about “the bee’s knees.” 

I beg to differ. 

For one, when I related the story of Louisa and Bartholomew to my WV friends, they all knew exactly what “you’re the berries” meant.

For two, the 1920s took place a long, long time before I came into the world, and I am more than familiar with “you’re the berries” and “the bee’s knees.”

Old sayings? Probably. Slang they may be, but both phrases appear to be common in the Mid-Atlantic region. In the South, not so much.

While living in Alabama, Gary and I raised our eyebrows when a neighbor offered to “carry” us in her car to the store. 

It was also in Alabama that we heard news reporters say, “A cutting occurred last night around midnight.” “Cutting” as in someone had stabbed (or knifed) someone else.

In Charleston, SC, when I said, “Will you all be joining us at the courts?” a woman replied, “You all? You all? You must be from the north.”

True Southerners say, “Y’all.” 

OK. Fake Southerners also say, “Y’all” (bless their hearts), but it’s easy to tell genuine from imitation when it comes to dialect.

West Virginians face the problem of being stuck in between. Northerners consider us Southerners, and Southerners deem us Northerners. 

But I know I am a “you all” and not a “y’all.”

Midwesterners also have unique sayings. My hair ties are their hair binders. I would rather when they have their druthers. When I see a baby, I say, “Oh, how cute.” Midwesterners say, “Oh, for cute!”

The Western part of the U.S. claims its own slang to fame. For “all talk and no action,” they say, “All hat and no cattle.” People who talk too much are “jawing,” and a “tenderfoot” is someone in training.

Westerners say, “Don’t squat with your spurs on” and “Never ask a barber if you need a haircut.”

Food for thought.

Born in South Carolina, my grand toddler is a true Southerner with West Virginia in her blood. At three, she worked out her own understanding of “You’re the berries.” 

While eating breakfast the morning after she met our resident toad, Louisa said, “Vieve, will we see Bartholomew today?”

“I hope so,” I said, “but he doesn’t usually come out this early.”

At that, Louisa smiled at her mom and dad, and said, “Bartholomew thinks I’m the fruit!”

Travel tales

On By VievesVineIn Places, travel2 Comments

Gary and I strapped on life jackets for our Snake River raft ride in the Grand Tetons. Kal, our guide, directed four women who were traveling together to one side of the raft. 

An older gentleman and what looked to be his 50-ish year-old son plopped down on the opposite side, leaving no room for us to climb aboard. 

“Uhh,” said Kal, “could you please move across so this couple can get in?”

The men hesitated but complied.

Once seated, I looked over to the dad and said, “Hi, where are you from?”

Unsmiling, the man said, “I’m from California. He’s from Arizona. Please, don’t talk during the ride. I want to enjoy nature.”

Hmmm. 

We were embarking on a 3.5-hour tour along one of the most beautiful stretches in the United States with a guy who didn’t like people.

For me, the joys of traveling include the people I meet along the way. 

If Gary and I had not engaged in conversation with Alexander, our breakfast server at Ole Faithful Inn in Yellowstone, we would have been lost, literally.

According to the map, Biscuit Basin was the starting point for our hike to Mystic Falls, but Alexander said, “It’s still closed after the hydrothermal explosion last summer.”

He said, “It’s a prettier hike if you go this way,” and gave us directions.

We reciprocated with information about hiking in West Virginia and rafting on the Upper and Lower New River.   

“I’m going to make that trip,” said our breakfast server-turned trail guide.  

At the overlook for the Grand Prismatic hot spring, a young woman used an extendable phone tripod to take pics and snapped one for us as well. 

“She’s a keeper,” I told her boyfriend, “You need to stick with her.”

“Hopefully forever,” he said. 

I paid the favor forward at the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone by taking photos for others. A Chinese family did the same for us.  

We didn’t know it then, but that sealed our friendship. As Gary and I looped our way back up the trail from the Lower Falls, someone said, “Here…here. You sit here.”

From a bench in the corner of a switchback, the Chinese grandfather beckoned us, laughing, “Here…sit here. I am worried about you.”

We sat. 

His English was limited. Our Chinese? Nonexistent. But together we enjoyed the majesty all around us.

Over a fireside chat, a New Jersey couple enlightened us about Wisecars, a company that saved them half on their car rental. They also said, “Eat at the Snow Lodge. It keeps its chef and a full menu while other spots prepare for hibernation.”

A National Park Service employee said she and her husband left upstate New York five years ago to work and live in Yellowstone year-round. In winter, she snowmobiles 33 miles to work and 33 miles back and loves every minute of it. 

Then, we landed on a raft below the Grand Tetons with a grumpy old man. Embarrassed, his son offered to take photos of us whenever I attempted selfies. 

The river ebbed and flowed beneath the towering beauty of the Grand Tetons. The dad said not a word—not even to his son. Gary and I talked with the women on the other side of the boat.

From the raft’s middle, our guide pointed out two bald eagles and shared stories about the interesting wildlife he’s encountered. We asked Kal where he had grown up (Idaho) and if he stays in Wyoming in winter (he does). 

When we docked, Gary and I were the last to climb out. We thanked Kal for a lovely ride.

“Hey, I’m sorry for that awkward start,” he said. “Thanks so much for talking and asking questions. That’s what it’s all about. That guy should have booked a solitary ride.”

“No problem,” we said.

For us, the grumpy old man was just another travel tale.

Keyword: Artificial

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My laptop took its final bow. When I replaced it, an enthusiastic young clerk made sure everything I needed from the old model had transferred to the new one.

“Let me show you all of the new features and our latest technology,” he said.

“OK,” I said.

“Check this out,” he went on. “If you tap this button, AI will correct your spelling and grammar. It can also compose your sentences. If you want, you can let it write your emails for you….”

He was on a roll, but I politely interrupted his passionate tutorial. I couldn’t let him waste another breath.

“I appreciate you sharing this information, but before you go any further, I need to tell you something,” I said.

“Great. I’d love to hear it,” he said.

“I am a writer, and I will never, as in ever, ask AI to write anything for me. The second I switch it on, I turn off my voice,” I said.

The young man’s eyes grew wide, and his jaw went slack.

“You see,” I said, “not only writers, but everyone possesses a unique voice. If we allow AI to write for us, what a boring society we’ll become.”

I could have added “ordinary” and “fake” and “average” and “apathetic.”

AI is a polarizing subject. A great many have embraced it—too quickly, I think. Others fear it, for good reason. 

Adults, teenagers, and children engage in conversations with ChatGPT rather than talking with friends, family, coaches, and teachers. Television ads for the AI bot encourage individuals to look to it for advice on workouts, cooking, relationships—you name it. 

Kids turn to the chatbot for homework, and it becomes their trusted confidante.  Lawsuits have been filed by parents who lost their children. ChatGPT discouraged one young man from talking with his parents and offered to write a suicide note for him. 

Colleges and universities are struggling to find software programs that detect AI content in students’ work. So far, human judgment appears to be the most dependable tool.

I liken the insurgence of AI to the advent of calculators. Before calculators, students were required to show their work on math homework and exams—every single step.

When calculators became more available, school administrators banned them from the classroom. Teachers said students needed to exercise their minds, use what they learned, and work out math problems using their brains.

That the administrators and teachers were correct mattered not. 

By the mid-1970s, the calculator had weaseled its way through school doors. Next thing we knew, the boards of education supplied every math class with calculators for student use. 

I wonder how many people reading this can solve 7th-grade math problems in their heads or figure out restaurant tips without reaching for their phone’s calculator.

When you rest, you rust, both physically and mentally.

AI is a calculator for all subjects. When we turn to it, we’re choosing convenience over intellect. Use it enough, and our brainpower will fade; we’ll become AI-dependent.

AI was a hot topic during the recent United Nations (UN) General Assembly. Of AI, UN Secretary-General António Guterres said, “…innovation must serve humanity—not undermine it,” and “…autonomous systems must never decide who lives.”

Guterres and I agree.

One positive step would be to place the same limits on AI that we do for alcohol—kids should have no access to it until they turn 21. The wait will allow our young people to develop their own minds and hopefully the confidence to continue to rely on that brainpower. 

After hearing me out, the young man at the computer store was at a loss for words. I stood to leave, thanked him for his time, and said, “Don’t lose your voice.”

AI stands for Artificial Intelligence. Keyword: Artificial.

11:11

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday Life1 Comment

Consider 11:11 AM. Consider 11:11 PM. 

When I take a random glance at a clock, 11:11 is the time I see more than any other. Maybe, just maybe, 11:11 sticks easily in my head, making me believe my eyes land on it more.

I don’t think so. 

Why would 11:11 capture my attention any more than 3:33 or 2:22 or 5:55 or 10:10?

This 11:11 thing has gone on for years—and I do mean years. It’s happened so many times that, when I look at a clock or a watch and see 11:11, I look away, shake it off, and move on with my day or night—fast. 

If Gary is within earshot on those occasions, I say, “Make sure you check the time when I die. I bet I’ll take my last breath at 11:11.” 

He waves me away and laughs. He does that a lot.

If his eyes fell on 11:11 as often as my eyes do, he, too, might wonder if the number/time carries some kind of personal significance.

I recently checked the time as I readied for lunch date, and 11:11 tried stared me down.

I said to myself, “Self, I’ve got to get to the heart of this matter. What is the deal with 11:11?”

Most Americans recognize 11/11 (no AM or PM) as Armistice Day or Veterans Day or Remembrance Day.  At least I hope they do.

Friday, November 11, 1918, the armistice was signed that put an end to World War I. The cessation of combat took place the “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.”

Those are some pretty significant 11s if you ask me. Maybe I’m drawn to 11:11 to remind me to appreciate what took place all those years ago, but even I know that’s a stretch.

Those who don’t immediately tie 11/11 to Veterans Day may say, “Are you talking about 9/11?”

I am not. That’s a day we all want to, but should never, forget.

After years of being haunted by 11:11—the time, I typed the following question into the search bar of my web browser: “What is the significance of 11:11 AM and 11:11 PM?”

I expected a lesson on how to read a clock or instructions asking me to be more specific.

Instead, a wealth of too much information populated the page. The Farmer’s Almanac popped up and mentioned Veterans Day, but it went on to say the time 11:11 is believed to bring good luck.

The article said, “You have probably heard the famous saying, ‘Make a wish when the clock shows 11:11!’ To some, this means more than a fun statement.”

Good luck? Make a wish?

Had I ever heard “the famous saying,” I would have spent a lot less time cringing and trying to erase those numbers from my mind.  Good luck tied to 11:11 was a brand-new concept for me.

I went on to learn that numerologists think November 11 at 11:11 is the luckiest wish-granting day and time of the year. And 11:11 AM or PM on any given day is considered the strongest time to make a wish and set a world-changing goal. 

Additional web pages took the symbolism of 11:11 deeper, as in way deep. The “special” time, both AM and PM, is also seen as “a powerful symbol of synchronicity, awakening, and alignment with the universe.”

When we catch 11:11 on the clock, we’re supposed to be mindful of our thoughts and intentions. Some contend that my 11:11 sightings are positive messages from the universe.

Hmmm…I’m not so sure. 

As far as I can tell, I’ve been wasting wishes on first stars and birthday candles when I should have been wishing on clocks. 

Who knew?