An Apple every two decades keeps the dream alive

Did you hear that Steve Jobs, founder of Apple Computer and, until recently, CEO of Apple, died? Last Wednesday?

Yeah. I figured the news had reached you.

I have not thought of Steve Jobs above a half-dozen times in the last thirty years. Didn't even know he was sick.

And yet his untimely demise moved me deeply.

You know I'm about to tell you why.

I got married in 1979. TG did too. In 1980 I had a baby while he watched. We had no money to speak of and practically no earthly possessions. Only our happy home.

Anyone who's ever lived that small, sweet scenario in all its aching increments knows the meaning of true joy.

And it should have been enough.

So why did I cry myself to sleep at least once a week, TG rocking me in his arms and saying shhhhhh baby, shhhh, helpless to help me?

Well first of all you might as well know, I am prone to melancholia.

And I knew there was something else -- not different, but more -- I was supposed to accomplish.

It had very little to do with money although extra cash has always been welcome in our household.

Neither did it relate to my craving a vocation apart from wife and mother because if there is anything on this earth that interests me less than being a career woman, I challenge you to name it.

At the time I did not fully realize what was wrong, but now I know.

I was being driven to create.

So what did I do? I started selling Mary Kay cosmetics and had another baby.

Now, I have been told I could sell foie gras to a duck -- my powers of persuasion are that potent -- and I sold some makeup, but somehow it didn't scratch the itch.

Naturally that treasured second baby -- for years I had wanted to create a little girl named Audrey -- took my mind off my troubles for a good while.

But when the dust settled I was still searching for the answer. I decided to hire myself out as a freelance secretary working from home. TG bought me an Olivetti Praxis electric typewriter and in time I secured a few clients.

Things were going well. I could tap away at the kitchen table while the babies slept and stow my typewriter at mealtimes. I made pin money which usually I blew on new outfits, clothes horse that I am, or stuff for the house. Being Suzy Homemaker's red-headed stepchild comes with certain responsibilities.

In 1983, around the time Audrey was born, my paternal grandmother died. Because my father had been an only child and my grandmother was a widow, her estate was divided equally among his four children.

In 1984 I got my six-thousand-dollar inheritance and promptly spent half of it on an Apple IIe DuoDisk -- the kind with a green screen and floppies bigger than a MacBook Air -- and a dot matrix printer. Togther the two machines took up my entire kitchen table and made some of the strangest, most exotic bleeps, blurps and buzzes.

I figured I'd arrived.

Quickly I put together a makeshift desk in our downstairs TV room by buying a hollow door for the top and letting a pair of two-drawer filing cabinets serve as supports.

It gave me a surface for my massive equipment -- which looked so sleek and modern to my wondering eye -- and also an out-of-the-way space in which to work.

I gained more clients and in time I turned my attention exclusively to writing resumes and cover letters. I did that for the next six years, eventually building up an impressive client base and making pretty good money into the bargain.

The Apple IIe was replaced around 1990 by an IBM clone and eventually I supplanted the busy dot matrix with an office-quality HP laser printer. Everything got quieter.

In 1992, after we moved to Tennessee and I realized people there were loath to pay me seventy-five dollars to write a one-page resume, as they had been more than willing to do in the greater Chicagoland area, I went to work as a legal secretary.

Not exactly a step in the right direction if I do say so myself. But needs must.

Eventually I got rid of my Buick-sized outdated computer equipment and bought a Compaq Presario that the whole family used. In time it died a natural death.

In early 2003 I invested in a Dell desktop -- along with a lot of other high-tech equipment, all of which I now would like to give a watery grave at the bottom of Lake Murray -- and became a court reporter.

By late 2008 the Dell was listing near to the scuppers and I was wringing my hands in frustration as it grew less competent by the day. In addition to court reporting, by then I was doing my real work: blogging and writing.

A year went by and the situation became so dire, I threatened to quit my job and never go near a computer again. I could not endure the laborious process of waiting for the machine to think about whether it was in the mood to obey a simple command. I think it had a virus.

A few of you remember this ecstatic blog post from late December 2009. The one where I told you my family had pooled their racehorses and bought Mama an iMac for Christmas.

Talk about your tears of joy. I practically fainted when Andrew ripped the paper from the box -- Yes! Andrew opened my present! -- and then I broke down when I realized what they'd done.

Within a few minutes we were all crying. I know theirs were tears of relief that they wouldn't have to hear me gripe anymore. At least not about my computer. Because y'all, if Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

Last year Andrew gave me an iPod and it soon became one of my favorite things. And you know my granddaughter, Allissa? The one who's three and a half? Ask her what she wants for Christmas.

"A iPod Touch."

She uses her mother's iPod Touch to enjoy Tom & Jerry episodes on YouTube. You should see her swipe that screen, find the cartoon she wants, tap it, then hold the tiny device just so in order to watch.

At three! What will it be at four, I wonder?

Everybody's wee-weed up this week because Randall Stross of The New York Times compared the life and achievements of Steve Jobs to that of Thomas Edison.

Whatever. I cannot think of a single person to whom one could honestly compare Steve Jobs or Thomas Edison individually, much less to one another. They're like snowflakes -- hello, no two alike -- and besides, all comparisons are odious.

I guess I could have told this story more succinctly but you know me: why use fifty words when five thousand will do?

What I want to say is that I am in awe of Mr. Jobs's innovations and his great spirit of entrepreneurship because not once but twice, his incomparable vision changed my life in tangible ways.

My Apple IIe opened a door for me like nothing else could have. My iMac represents those I love most seeing me for what I am: a writer. A person who creates with words.

I still cry a lot, but never because I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. There's no app for the reasons I weep.

Meanwhile I have yet to acquire either an iPhone 4 or an iPad 2. I want both. Christmas is right around the corner. Kids, make it easy on yourselves! Start with the phone.

><><><><>++++<><><><><

We don't get a chance to do that many things, and every one should be really excellent. Because this is our life.

~Steve Jobs~

Certain

I never saw a moor,

I never saw the sea;

Yet know I how the heather looks,

And what a wave must be.

I never spoke with God,

Nor visited in Heaven;

Yet certain am I of the spot

As if the chart were given.

><><><><>++++<><><><><

by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Right as RAINN

Wow. He cleans up nice.Belay that!

The pirate has opened his cute mouth and inserted his adorable foot.

But he took it right out in order to fit in a generous serving of crow.

As a result I have received no fewer than a half-dozen emails from interested parties wanting to know my reaction.

I cannot imagine why anyone would seek my opinion on a news item involving the estimable Mr. Depp, but who's to argue?

Besides, if you know me at all you're well aware that I'm rarely loath to share my myriad editorial views.

So here you go. The opportune moment, as it were.

Johnny was wrong, dead wrong, to compare serving as the subject of a photo shoot to being raped.

I mean, come on, Johnny. Ouch.

In case you hadn't heard this juicy news tidbit, perhaps it's because the story was quickly eclipsed by the untimely death on Wednesday of Apple CEO Steve Jobs.

At any rate, the ill-advised comment was made by the second-highest-paid actor in the world in the November issue of Vanity Fair.

Which edition of the famously stylish but ultra-liberal rag was not yet on newsstands when the firestorm erupted.

Methinks when Johnny came up with that particular metaphor he may have been smoking something a trifle stronger than his beloved Bali Shag. Or perhaps rum had been administered.

At any rate, Katherine Hull, spokesperson for the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN) wasted no time in trotting Johnny out to the woodshed thusly:

While photos may feel at times intrusive, being photographed in no way compares to rape -- a violent crime which affects another American every two minutes. RAINN welcomes the opportunity to speak with Mr. Depp and educate him about the real-life experiences faced by survivors every day, and ways that he can work with RAINN to help.

To which Johnny quickly and publicly responded:

I am truly sorry for offending anyone in any way. I never meant to. It was a poor choice of words on my part in an effort to explain a feeling. I understand there is no comparison and I am very regretful. In an effort to correct my lack of judgment, please accept my heartfelt apology.

Ah! That was nice. See? Johnny knows how to be good.

However.

Although I do not defend my favorite actor's use of the ugly word rape, I would like to point out a few things.

The first being, I believe Johnny's original statement was misrepresented in at least one news outlet, which reported that he likened sitting for a photo shoot to being a victim of violent sexual assault.

But Johnny didn't use those words. What he actually said was that being the subject of a photo shoot feels "dumb" and "weird" and "stupid" and "like rape."

Although Johnny undeniably used the word rape -- at no time does he claim he was misquoted -- I do not think he meant it in the sense of a violent sexual assault. I think his intended meaning was that posing for his picture sometimes makes him feel violated.

Which, I am sorry to say because I make no attempt to disguise the fact that I like Johnny very much, is still total hogwash.

People. Hundreds of times throughout his long career Johnny Depp has shown up of his own free will at a prearranged time and in a predetermined place, and submitted to having his picture taken.

This isn't exactly his first rodeo. He knows what's going to happen beforehand. I'm pretty sure there are rules set down by him or his handlers to which, even if they are more or less guidelines, the photographers know they are expected to adhere.

Also I am pretty sure Johnny is paid for his services, and paid handsomely. No pun intended.

So if it feels like rape, why does he agree to enter into the process over and over and over again? Nobody who has ever been raped would volunteer to show up for an encore.

The truth is, Johnny has never been raped and he does not know how it feels. But many people do know how it feels and they live with its bitter aftermath every day of the world.

Nothing in life is real to us until it's personal. I believe if the concept of rape were personal to Johnny, he never would have compared it to his feelings of unease when he is obliged to pose for a set of photos.

I wonder how his comments made the photographers feel. The professionals who surely consider it a great privilege and quite the feather in their cap to work with him, and who over the years have respectfully -- sometimes even reverentially -- provided thousands of images of the celebrated face.

One can imagine more than a few of them being taken aback to learn that Johnny felt during their photo shoot that he was being raped. Makes one ponder why the spokesperson for the National Association of Freelance Photographers (NAFP) didn't take Johnny to task as well. 

Maybe it's because they knew he was using hyperbole. They chose to take into account the context in which he spoke and to cut him some slack.

Or maybe they didn't gripe because they'd like to take his picture again. Or maybe they're glad he feels raped when they take his picture.

Perhaps they were too busy to even notice he'd said anything. If I were a professional photographer, that's the kind I'd want to be.

But seriously. Who hasn't heard, for example, of someone referring to farmers "raping" the land? Surely when you hear or read that, you know the word "rape" is not being used to denote violent sexual assault.

Just as the many nuances of vocabulary must be considered by highly visible people before they speak publicly, so must listeners sometimes use their noggin before getting all indignant and insisting the person walk the plank.

As for RAINN, I believe they had a responsibility to the victims they advocate, as well as to those who donate money and time and influence to their charity, to upbraid Johnny on his unfortunate choice of words. If they hadn't spoken out, it could have sent the message that they thought Johnny was too big to be told by those he unwittingly offended, that his comment was hurtful.

And wasn't it gallant of JD to so graciously own up to his gaffe? I think so. I'll bet nobody was expecting that.

Pirate.

Reply to: Reply to Jennifer Weber Send

They love to work and work to love

Rambo a/k/a Sir Snooze-a-lotHave you ever seen Love Leads the Way? The 1984 movie about how the The Seeing Eye was founded?

I love that film. It's a true story. We watched the video with our kids when they were all still school-age. Somebody cried at the end. Oh! That was me.

I think Audrey cried too. TG might've misted up. It was good.

There is a blind gentleman in our church and whenever I get the chance, I tease his seeing-eye dog. We'll be walking out after a service, for example, and the dog will be in front of me.

On his harness is a sign that says something like, Please don't pet me! I'm working!

Right away I pet him and say, "How am I supposed to not pet you when you're so cute?"

Or sometimes I change it and say, "If you don't want me to pet you, don't be so cute."

No matter. Whether I make it a question or a statement, the answer is always the same: much tail wagging (by the dog) and a big smile (from his blind master).

I don't know the dog's name but I know this: he (if he is in fact a he) never makes a sound. You'll stroll behind his pew (his humans sit at the very back) and that long tail is often splayed out into the space where folks walk, and I reckon a time or two he's been unintentionally trodden upon. But he never reacts.

Until last Sunday. The service had already gotten underway. At one point it was quiet for a few beats and that's when everybody heard it.

WOOF!

The bark reverberated all around the sanctuary, up to the rafters and back down. Everyone laughed. It was great.

While visiting relatives in Ohio this past July, on Wednesday night we went to prayer meeting. After the service I noticed there was a ruckus in the lobby.

I asked someone what was going on. Seeing-eye dogs! A pair of them!

Turns out two adult blind sisters were fresh back from The Seeing Eye where they had each trained with a beautiful guide dog. Because of the dogs, the girls had gotten a house of their own and were going to be able to live apart from their parents for the first time ever.

Would you believe? I had my camera with me.

Those dogs sat there and let dozens of people of all ages stroke and scritch and nuzzle and nudge and push and pull and tweak and tousle. Their only response was to gaze plaintively from time to time at the little pouch in the seat beside their owners. The pouch that held the treats.

They got lots of treats that night.

When we visited New York last May, I had a nice time with a few bomb-sniffing dogs in the Staten Island Ferry terminals.

We had a wait on the Staten Island side before returning to Manhattan and I noticed the dogs standing or sitting patiently beside their officers.

You didn't even know or hear what the officer said that would make one or the other or both dogs approach someone or something and begin sniffing.

Those dogs were so friendly. Kids and adults alike were drawn to them. Nobody was told they couldn't touch.

I noticed another working dog sitting beside the escalator on the Manhattan side, right where people stream in and out. He was such a pretty red-brown color and he was sporting a purple boo-boo bandage.

I asked if I could take pictures of the dogs on the Staten Island side and the officer said sure. In one of them you can't see the dog's face because he jumped up on me just as I was trying to get a close-up!

And he hadn't been told to sniff me for explosive materials. At least I don't think so. He just wanted to lick my face.

I love working dogs. If you see one today, tell them thank you and take a second to scritchy-scratch between their ears.

You'll be rewarded with a heartfelt tailwag at the very least.

The key what unlocks it

So the other day my darling TG approaches me with the simple question all wives hear from time to time. The query that melts our girlish hearts and sets our eyelashes aflutter:

"Have you seen the key to my truck?"

I answered without hesitation:

"Yes dearest, I have seen the key to your truck. But if what you are really asking is whether I know the current geographic coordinates of the key to your truck, the answer is no."

Confirmed: I am a smart aleck. It's TG's cross to bear.

Something you need to know about TG: he does not carry around a keyring with gobs of keys on it like most people are prone to do.

As it happens we don't need keys to our house. That's all done by mashing buttons and entering codes to lift doors and disarm alarms and whatnot -- oh, and we've memorized the song that must be sung to the piranhas so they'll swim over and trip the switch that raises the moat.

Hence the only keys we require are the ones to our vehicles.

Well, in my case, vehicle. Singular. I drive one car and it is the rare occasion indeed when I am unable to produce my keyring.

I may lose a ring in pursuit of the key, but that's another subject.

TG lost his remote control (and key) to that car roughly six weeks after we bought it. Ever since, he's used the key that was meant to be a spare. If he can find it.

TG drives two trucks in addition to "my" car, thus he has three separate keys. And they stay separate; he never considers hanging the three of them from the same apparatus although each of them is already on a keyring with plenty of room for two more keys.

I'm guessing that would be too easy. Or maybe it's a preemptive strike against losing all his keys at once. Could it be that he sees putting all the keys on one ring as burning his bridges behind him?

It's anybody's guess.

In this case the key he'd lost track of was the one that starts up his F150 pickup. Said key hangs from the laminated yellow tag given to him by the dealership when he bought the truck two years ago.

Now, I'm aware of gizmos on the market that purport to help you find things you've lost. For example, there's the FOFA:

Once a FOFA Key Finder is attached to your keys and other easy-to-lose things, it can find and be found by all the rest! use your wallet to find your keys, your keys to find a misplaced remote control, or any of them to find an uncharged or muted cell phone!

If I got one for TG, he'd only lose it.

Then there are inventions like Phone Halo. It uses your smart phone to find your keys or wallet.

Another gadget known as ZOMM employs your keys to locate your stupid phone.

What happens if you lose your keys, your wallet, your smart phone, your remote control, your ZOMM, your FOFA, and your Phone Halo? What's next?

Don't answer that.

All I know is, my phone isn't all that smart and neither are my keys.

But apparently my clothes dryer is.

Our laundry room is very near our bedroom. That night -- the night of the day TG had been unable to locate his truck key -- the dryer was humming away as we drifted off to sleep.

Only, it sounded like the ghost of Jacob Marley had gotten trapped in there along with the chain he'd forged in life, link by link. Clank. Whir. Clunk. You get the idea.

It wasn't loud enough to make me get up. Only loud enough to make me muzzily wonder what the Dickens I'd put in there that was hitting ... the ... sides ... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Wait for it.

All was revealed the next day when I emptied the dryer! Five or six towels, a pair or two of TG's knockabout shorts, a few tee shirts ... and the key to my dear heart's truck. Squeaky clean.

Happy Weekend! May all doors, ignitions, and hearts be open to you.