A Time to Change

Whether my grandchildren believe it or not, I used to read the news on paper (not papyrus). At home, we had five people and one bathroom. At my grandfather’s, we had more people and an outhouse. Schools were not air conditioned, we walked to get there, and little girls wore dresses.

Now, though I said I would not, I read the news on-line every morning. We have two people and two bathrooms. Schools are air conditioned, most kids ride a school bus or get dropped off and picked up, and little girls wear a variety of clothing.  

I say all of this to point out that we can change. For some change is slow and cumbersome, for others it is a race to the next new thing. But we can change little things and we can big things. Americans have seen so much change, they seem to have dug in and decided, like the Amish, they will go to a certain standard and no further.

I do not know why the Amish decided what they decided, but unless you are willing to live in a closed society and shovel horse dung, you should learn to change. Sometimes change comes slowly, sometimes overnight or in the next minute. Personally, I think it should flow in like maple syrup over pancakes. I have learned the world does not care what I think.

It is much, much, much easier to go through change if you are the leader, not the follower. I bought my parents their first cordless phone. My nephew sat with my father, patiently explaining how you charge it before use , etc. I watched in awe. I thought if I gave them a cordless phone, they would get on with being in the real world and quit running for a corded phone. My nephew realized my arrogance in thinking change was easy-peasy. The picture of him with the unit in his hand, leaning in to my father like they were making a major treaty after a world war taught me more than I care to admit. I needed to learn patience.

My mother called me at work one morning. I had dragged my feet giving my parents my work phone number. My father had a tendency to think he was the most important phone call of my day and it worked better if he called my home or cell, but I had finally been the daughter he wanted and given up my work number. My boss was sitting across from me and her face went from mild interest to trying not to laugh.

Mother: Sandy, what’s green? People keep saying it like I should know what it is.

I paused, trying to switch my brain from accounting to a one word color.

Me: Ummm…It’s about ecology. If you want to take care of the planet, you go green and use things that are less toxic.

Mother: Oooh! Well, people just kept saying it.

You can see why my boss was amused. Mother used commercial grade Spic and Span on her floors, so the information was unlikely to change her, but at least she knew what was being discussed. And I was learning.

Mother called me, often, when my dad was at the VA hospital. The conversation would start with, “I don’t know where your father is.” Actually, he was either at the VA or somewhere on a regular path between Louisville, Kentucky, where the VA was located and the small town of Salem, Indiana, where they lived, but her anxiety seemed to suddenly run rampant when he had been gone longer than she estimated. I would try to be compassionate, while thinking, “I am six hundred miles away, what am I supposed to do here?” I know, at times I lack the sympathy gene, but we had a problem and it needed a solution and I really was six hundred miles away.

I arranged for my niece to get a cell phone for my parents. She is lovely and patient and could explain how to use what they called “the little phone,” and I could pay for it. They only used it for when my father was coming back from the VA. He would call from the bridge over the Ohio River, she would know he was on his way, and her anxiety calmed. That they did not use it any other time seems odd to all of us, but change comes at its own speed.

I moved home, finally, and got my own Facebook page. Lest I think my parents were unique, my own grandson would say, “Gramma, you’re doing it wrong,” to everything I did on-line. He finally sat down beside me, took my laptop, and taught me the finer points of the internet. His patience was legendary. Once he thought I could lock out my keyboard , and navigate making friends, hiding the ones who weren’t as friendly as I expected, etc., he said, “Is there anything else you want to know?” I assured him I would consult him if I found a computer roadblock. This is a young man who rebuilt his own computer, carries a degree in engineering from Purdue and generally moves and thinks at lightning speed, so I knew I had been given a gift in changing with the times.

You and I must accept that we need to change whether we are the teacher or the student. I was cooking with my thirteen year old granddaughter when she came to lemon zest. She stopped, lemon in hand. I explained that it meant little strips of lemon peel. She looked like I looked the first time someone convinced me to try wasabi. But my Mammaw went from being embarrassed when the horse pooped on a date to flying in jets, so we’ve got this. I would suggest, however, that your first taste of wasabi be small…really tiny…or just avoid it