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If you were fortunate enough to have been able to buy a pair of tickets to the CHFI Oldies Dance, then you’ll no doubt be reading this blog over the weekend. Ditto if you won a pair. They’re not the easiest to come by. The dance is a Toronto tradition and always one of the hottest tickets in town. They usually sell out within the hour of them going on sale. For those of us not able to attend, I hope you’ll join me between 9 and 11 p.m. for a special dance invitation with Lovers and Other Strangers.

I’ve attended the event in years past when it was held on a Saturday night. Since the dance falls on a Friday this year, I’ll be live on the air and I’m looking forward to spending the evening with you.

If truth be told, I’m not a great dancer. The title of this blog is a pretty good description of what I’m like on the dance floor. I used to be a drummer in a fairly popular rock band many years ago. I was the one to set and keep the rhythm for those on the dance floor. It was no doubt due to that fact that I did not learn to dance well at an early age.

My wife is a great dancer. She can dance to just about any kind of music, and that has a lot to do with all the family functions she attended throughout her life. When she and I dance today, she’s usually the one to lead, except when it comes to a slow dance. That’s when I feel the most comfortable. But I still have to careful about not stepping on her toes. That said, I still take the lead getting her up to dance knowing how much she enjoys it.

Some years back, we attended my in-laws’ 50th wedding anniversary in Montreal. Both my children had a fabulous time on the dance floor. They will never suffer from the “two left feet syndrome,” from what I’ve observed. They were never self conscious. They were more than happy to join all the rest of the dancers and move to whatever music happened to be playing. I think that plays a big part in learning how to dance. That you throw caution to the wind and just let yourself feel the rhythm.

My wife and I picked a fairly slow song for our first dance at our wedding. We danced to Have I Told You Lately by Van Morrison. I watched my father-in-law dance with his daughter-my wife-that night, and wondered how I would be on some night in the future when I will no doubt dance at my daughter’s wedding. It’s a very special moment when the entire assembly gathers in a circle around the dance floor to watch this very traditional and intimate moment. When the music played and they began to dance, something very special happened between them. It was magic, pure and simple. Something very special happens when the father of the bride takes his daughter by the hand, and leads her to the middle of the dance floor for those few brief moments. I’m sure she remembers all the dances she has had with him through the years. He may have been the one to teach her to waltz. She might remember a little girl standing on daddy’s shoes as he taught her the intricacies of an Italian dance step from his past. She may even remember the look on his face when she came down the stairs in a beautiful gown, the night she was being escorted by a boy to the school prom. She probably remembers the way he comforted her when that same boy, or another, was no longer interested in dancing with her. I’m sure it’s moments like these that help to make her teary-eyed as she briefly dances with the man who has given her hope for her own marriage, the one she knows who won’t cry publicly, but will be a little misty-eyed when he sees her husband step in to carry on with the next dance.

I watched my wife and her father, and imagined some of those images going through both their minds. I watched as they exchanged a few words between them, but in all of our life together, would never intrude on the privacy of what they shared with each other. I often wonder what I will say to my daughter at that moment when I lead her to the dance floor. Besides being so proud of her at that moment, I wonder if I can say everything that has filled my heart about her from the past twenty or so years, during a brief three minute song, or whether words really need to be said, if they’ve been said out loud, and often, through all the years leading up to that time?

The day that I will be called to perform the same duty is still a long way off. Hopefully my wife will be able to give me a few more lessons before then.

Tonight I’ll play some of your favourites and we’ll see where the music takes us. So move the coffee table off to the side, put on your blue suede shoes or whatever you feel comfortable to dance in. Some people like to remove their shoes entirely. You just have to be careful that someone like me is not dancing nearby…

***

Don Jackson

In a recent blog, I mentioned that I needed to have a new computer built for me. Slowly but surely I’m plodding through all my e-mail. I wanted to thank you once again your patience as I recover from this major inconvenience.

I selected a new background for my desktop from my Windows program that shows a mountain peak at night and a moon high overhead. I can just imagine what it must be like to climb to a lofty peak by moonlight.

In a blog posted January 12th, 2008, I mentioned the passing of a great mountaineer, the death of Sir Edmund Hillary at the age of 88. The blog was called “The Mountain.” You might want to read it as an extra companion writing to tonight’s radio show.

In one of my earlier profiles on this website, mention was made of the fact that I used to do a little rock climbing in my younger more foolish years. It all started with a little mountain just south of Montreal. It was a leisurely drive outside the city on a weekend that a lot of Montrealers took to get away from it all. It had some spectacular hiking trails. One of them led to a small mountain lake nestled in the trees about halfway up. The other was a rigorous climb to the very top of the mountain. In tonight’s radio program I detail some of what I remember on those exhilarating climbs. Some years later, I took up the sport seriously. Instead of following well-appointed trails, I found my own route up the side of some fairly steep hills. I always had a dream of tackling some very large mountains in the Himalayas, but that was not to be.

One of the most exciting adventures I ever had was climbing a tall mountain on horseback on the north shore of Haiti. We were led by guide the steep trails on the side of this mountain. The trails were just wide enough for the horses to be able to negotiate the climb. At the very top was a fortress in the shape of a gun. We heard all the history of the place and enjoyed the spectacular view. Then it was time to make the long, arduous descent. All you had to do was lean slightly over to look straight down the mountain. It was a sheer drop to the ground far below. The horses would occasionally lose their footing for a brief moment, but they were used to ferrying riders up and down. They seemed to be well cared for, even though this was a particularly impoverished area of the country. I whispered a sincere “Thank you” in the horse’s ear when we arrived safely at the foot of the mountain. I paid a few extra dollars to make sure the horse got a little extra in its feedbag that night. I did not get a sense that these animals were mistreated in any way, but I was only there for the day.

On the way back to the resort we were staying at, the bus driver pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road. This was a winding road that traveled through some fairly dense jungle. He shut off the lights and motor and told us to open our windows. Off in the distance you could hear voodoo drums. A religious ceremony was underway just beyond our limited sight. Once our eyes became accustomed to the dark, you could faintly make out flickering candles in the distance. I’ve often wondered if it was done solely for the purpose of tourism, or if this was an actual ceremony that we happened to stumble upon.

This was many, many years ago, long before cellphones, satellite phones, home computers and the Internet with its instant worldwide communication via e-mail and text-messaging. At the time, a listener sent me a letter to the first radio station I worked at in Montreal. It was my first job there in the late 1970s. That person told me that a few hours of my radio show had been taped on cassette and carried on an expedition to the Himalayas. They enjoyed my style of broadcasting so much that they wanted a familiar voice at the camps at night. Today, it would be a relatively easy thing to get a wireless Internet connection at a base camp. A climber could then listen to the radio show by logging on to our website. Back then, you needed to make a tape and then carry it with its player along with all the rest of your supplies. The idea of a climb that high always intrigued me. Even though I never progressed to that level of attempting a Himalayan climb, one of my early radio shows made it to “the rooftop of the world.”

Finally, an anecdote from Bartlett’s Book Of Anecdotes. “The dramatic photograph of Tenzing Norgay on the summit of Mount Everest went around the world. Later people wondered why there was no companion picture of Hillary. The explorer wrote that he he had not asked the Sherpa to reciprocate because ‘as far as I knew, he had never taken a photograph before, and the summit of Everest was hardly the place to show him how.’”

***

Don Jackson 

“May the sun bring you new energy by day, / May the moon softly restore you by night, / May the rain wash away your worries / And the breeze blow new strength into your being, / And all of the days of your life may you walk / Gently through the world, and know its beauty.” A blessing from the great Apache Native American nation.

When we see people on the move, some walk fast as they rush to meet an appointment or deadline. Toronto’s downtown streets at rush hour are a good example. Others stroll leisurely along, taking their time to enjoy the world around them. You see those people as they walk past your home in the early evening. One of the best ways to walk is with a dog. Your furry best friend will slow you down and give you the chance to breathe in the fresh air.

“I dream of you walking at night along the streams of the country of my birth, warm blooms and the nightsongs of birds opening around you as you walk.” An excerpt from The Country Of Marriage by Wendell Berry.

Years back, I used to go for late-night walks after I got home from doing my radio show. I would carry a bottle of water and have my walkman plugged into my ears so that I could listen to the radio. I had a route that was familiar. It was the only way to keep up an exercise regimen during the high heat of summer. I shared the quiet streets with all manner of night creatures: cats on the prowl, the occasional raccoon and skunk. A few times I saw the fox that lives in the ravine close to my community. It was after seeing the fox cross the sidewalk in front of me on its way back into the ravine that I chose to walk on the cement median in the middle of the street. This way I figured I would have a better chance of not stumbling into a creature of the night on its search for food. I remember that it was a warm night. I had my radio turned up as I crossed to the centre of the street and began the walk uphill. I was so engrossed in what I was listening to that I didn’t hear the car pull up slowly beside me. I didn’t even notice the headlights illuminating the roadway. I just about jumped out of my skin when I was hit by the beam of the flashlight. I turned and heard the officer say, “Out on your walk, are you?” It was a police officer cruising this sleepy neighborhood. He asked me where I lived and we shared a few pleasant words. Even though his presence startled me, I was happy to know that he was doing his job keeping my community safe late at night.

There are parts of the city where it might not be advisable to walk by yourself even in the light of day. You have to be careful of the route you select. Always carry a fully-charged cellphone, just in case. I learned that the hard way some years back. When my children were very young, I had a two-seat stroller. I liked to take them along on my late-morning walks. It was particularly warm on that morning in late May. I felt energized and walked a little farther than I should have. It must have been a mild form of heat-stroke, because I stumbled and fell. I was wearing a hat, but the problem was I had gone beyond my limit. At that point I realized that I should have had a phone with me so that I could get my wife to come with the car to pick us up. I made it back safely with the family, but I’ve always been sure to take the cellphone with me in the event of an emergency.

Gertrude Thompson Miller wrote: “I walked among the tender grasses / Sparkling in the dew, / I heard the whispering of the trees, / The morning call of birds, the murmur of the bees, / I watched the buds so quietly unfold to kiss the sun; / I felt the calm and gentle breeze when day is done, / And then I know / That God would walk and talk within my garden, too.”

I enjoyed my walks with my young family. They were so curious about the world at that age. My son counted the trucks, and my daughter spoke to every dog we passed.

This is a prayer from the great Native American Sioux nation. “Grandfather Great Spirit. / All over the world the faces of living ones are alike. / With tenderness they have come up out of the ground. / Look upon your children that they may face the winds, / And walk the good road to the Day of Quiet. / Grandfather, Great Spirit, fill us with the light. / Give us the strength to understand, and the eyes to see. / Teach us to walk the soft earth as relatives to all that live.”

***

Don Jackson

“Nostalgia is the sweet halfway house by which you love the past and the sweet things in it without actually committing yourself to the nonsense that life was better then.” - Henry Mitchell from Memories magazine, and featured in the Points to Ponder column of the May 1997 issue of the Reader’s Digest.

Do you treat your goldfish well? You should. Apparently they have very long memories. They can even pine for their caregivers when they’re away. This is according to a story that was reported in The Sunday Times of London by a vet down in Tasmania sometime back. I’ve often told you about our fish in our backyard pond. They can hibernate through a long, cold winter, and when spring comes, they’re back up at the surface doing a lot of the same things to attract my attention they did the year before. Some years back, my daughter taught them how to eat the food right out of her hand. Even after months of sleeping deep in very cold water, they remember this little trick come the spring.

My memory is not what it used to be. I try to recall information for this show and find that I can’t remember the original source. Our lives are so filled with information overload that it doesn’t surprise me that some memories are elusive.

If you’re having trouble remembering what happened a week ago today, you might want to consider some kind of journal. Besides the obvious, there is another reason….

“A journal is more than a memory goad. It’s therapeutic. The act of opening a notebook to put words down stills the crosscurrents of worry, drawing to focus the essential thought patterns that best define us, intersecting those thoughts with the condition of our life at that exact moment. A journal is one of the few anchors the human condition allows us.” - Randy Wayne White, from Outside, quoted in the Points to Ponder column of the January 2001 issue of the Reader’s Digest.

This is one of my favorite quotes. “The greatest legacy we can leave our children is happy memories: those precious moments so much like pebbles on the beach that are plucked from the sand and placed in tiny boxes that lie undisturbed on tall shelves, until one day they spill out and time repeats itself, with joy and sweet sadness, in the child now an adult. Memories.  Love’s best preservative.” - Og Mandino from The Choice, published by Bantam, and featured in the Points to Ponder column of the July 1994 issue of the Reader’s Digest.

***

Don Jackson

When my wife and I were in New Orleans some years back, one of the most fascinating shops we visited in the French Quarter was a mirror shop. For the most part it contained mirrors from estate sales. They included some of the most ornate frames. It was strange being in a shop where your reflection seemed to go on forever. There was even a huge mirror that sat on the floor at an angle so that the top would not brush up against the ceiling of the store. My wife and I spoke with the proprietor about this unusual collection of mirrors, and most seemed to have their own unique story.

In one of my very old editions of the Britannica was this about “The Fame of Venetian Glass.”  This writer said, “During the Middle Ages no place in the world could match Venice for its glassware. One reason for the city’s supremacy was the abundance of excellent sand and alkaline sea plants (for making soda ash). Because the roaring furnaces in the glassmakers’ shops caused great risk of setting fire to the city, the glassmaking industry was transferred to the near-by island of Murano. In 1495 the glassmakers’ shops formed a magnificent street a mile long. The glassmakers’ guilds were rich and powerful.

“Another reason for moving the industry to Murano was to segregate the glassworkers and keep their processes secret. The guilds guarded the secrets of glass manufacture jealously, and no stranger was allowed to learn the art. Any craftsman carrying his knowledge to another country was followed and ordered back to Venice. If he refused to return, his relatives were imprisoned. If he still refused, someone was sent to kill him. Once a wandering Venetian glassmaker was followed to Germany, where he was stabbed with a dagger bearing the word, ‘Traitor.’”

It seems they took their business very, very seriously.

“For centuries Venetian glass enjoyed a monopoly as a commercial product. Venice exported mirrors, goblets, and cups all over the known world. The great traveler, Marco Polo, encouraged his fellow Venetians to manufacture quantities of glass beads for trade with eastern Asia. Venetian vases and cups were presents fit for a king. Glass dishes replaced gold services on the tables of the wealthy. Venetian artists produced glass in a wide range of lovely colors. The blowers created delicate shapes and patterns of surpassing beauty. Their ‘glass lace’ was made of twisted rods of opaque white and crystal-clear glass.”

Some lines later…

“In 1665, 20 Venetian glassmakers were tempted away by the French statesman, Jean Baptiste Colbert. He took them to Paris, France. There they set up a factory for blowing and silvering mirrors. The famous Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, France, was made by them.”

My wife has relatives who live just outside Venice. I must ask them if they have heard any of these stories.

Here’s an interesting superstition concerning mirrors. If you break one you’re supposed to wash the broken pieces in a stream that runs south. This way the bad luck is washed away. You could also bury the broken pieces deep in the earth.

***

Don Jackson

“Allow me to furnish the interior of my head as I please, and I shall put up with a hat like everybody else’s.”–Henri Bergson, and featured in the Soicial Studies column of the March 6th, 2006 issue of The Globe and Mail.

My show tonight is a tribute to one of the world’s leading proponents of archeology–Indiana Jones. The latest installment in the franchise of films was a little late in coming, but it’s finally here. I would imagine it will be one of the most popular films this weekend in theatres.

All of this got me to thinking of his signature fedora. It reminds me of the fedoras my father favored. He was from a generation that made this a popular form of headdress. He looked very dashing and debonair when dressed in one of his suits and a hat and going out for the evening with my mother.

As it said in a very old edition of the Britannica: “‘Headdress’ is a term seldom used today, and the word, ‘hat’ really describes this article of wearing apparel. It comes from the old Anglo-Saxon word, ‘haet,’ meaning ‘to cover.’ From the same word came the words, ‘house’ and ‘hut.’

“The custom of tipping the hat comes from the fact that a warrior, when entering a house, removed his helmet and extended his hand. By removing the helmet he expressed confidence in his host. By extending his hand, he showed he was not concealing any weapons, such as a knife.

“The making of felt hats dates back to A.D. 1000. Legend says that the  way to make felt was discovered accidentally. A Tibetan monk, returning to his monastery, picked up some rabbit fur to put in a hole in his sandal. When he got home and removed the fur, he found that the heat, moisture, and motion of walking had made it into a sort of fabric.”

“Felt is believed to have been first made in Asia for use as tents and carpets. It is the easiest of all fabrics to make, since it requires no weaving. It was unknown to the Western world until the time of the Crusades.”

My daughter is one of those people who look great no matter the style of hat she wears. I bought my wife an Italian sun hat in New Orleans some years back, and when my daughter tried it on I realized that I would have to take her to that great city to the same maker to have one fashioned just for her.

Indiana Jones has two trademarks: a bullwhip and his fedora. I’ve never had a hankering to carry a bullwhip on my belt but I do have a Panama hat that I bought some years back. It is rarely worn today, but it was the perfect head apparel to accompany a fine linen suit I bought at the time. The movie-going world is once again fascinated by Harrison Ford and his signature fedora. (I wonder if he gets to keep his.)

When my father passed away, my mother donated some of his suits and fedoras to a little theatre company. I would imagine that in some period plays my father’s fedoras have taken centre-stage. It doesn’t have the pedigree of the one worn by Indiana Jones, but I’m pleased to know that it might still be worn today.

***

Don Jackson

“The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, / Burned on the water; … / Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that / The winds were love-sick with them; …” An excerpt from Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. A description of her preferred mode of travel up and down the Nile, and the lingering after-effects of her presence.

My lilac trees are in bloom. We have a white lilac tree near the pond and just outside our kitchen window is a most magnificent purple lilac tree whose branches are filled with blooms. If anything could make the winds in my neighborhood “love-sick” it would be their perfume. And if not the lilac, then my Galaxy magnolia on the front lawn with its spectacular purple flowers that are also so fragrant.

I caught a passerby on the street leaning in to smell the heady fragrance of the magnolia now that it is in full bloom. He told me he was taken by the tree’s stunning flowers. He described it “a visual feast for the eyes” and was surprised to discover the scent, although he suspected as much. Something that beautiful could not be without a rich aroma.

The color purple best describes my blog tonight.

“Purple rose up to his full height. He was very tall and spoke with great pomp: ‘I am the color of royalty and power. Kings, chiefs and bishops have always chosen me. For I am the sign of authority and wisdom. People do not question me! They listen and obey!’” An excerpt from The Colors Of Friendship–Author Unknown.

Our deep-purple tulips have risen to their full height as well. The tulip is called “Queen of the Night.” They’re supposed to be black, but they’re really a deep shade of the color purple.

“And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me–filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.”–Edgar Allan Poe.

“The lilacs, bending many a year, / With purple load will hang; / The bees will not forget the tune / Their old forefathers sang. …” An excerpt from Nature’s Changes by Emily Dickinson.

Unfortunately, the software does not yet exist that would allow me to capture the fragrant essence of most of these blooms in my blog photos tonight. If and when the software ever becomes available, I would be more than happy to share what makes the gentle breezes around my home “love-sick.”

“My heart was full of sorrow / So I took it to the hill, / And bathed it in the clear burn / When all the air was still.

“I held it to the west wind / And warmed it in the sun, / In peaceful, purple silence / Till the healing had begun.” The Healing Place by C. M. Douglas, and featured in the 1998 edition of The Friendship Book of Francis Gay, published by D. C. Thomson and Company.

There is something healing about this color when it appears in the wild.

***

Don Jackson

“You and I / Have so much love / That it burns like a fire, / In which we bake a lump of clay / Molded into a figure of you / And a figure of me. / Then we take both of them, / And break them into pieces / And mix the pieces with water, / And mold again a figure of you, / And a figure of me. / I am in your clay. / You are in my clay. / In life we share a single quilt. / In death, we will share one coffin.” Married Love written by Kuan Tao-Sheng in the 13th century, and featured in the collection The Oxford Book Of Marriage edited by Helge Rubenstein, published by the Oxford University Press in 1990. Its ISBN is 0-19-282930-0.

In a very simple way, maybe that’s how it would be done if we were to create soul mates from scratch. In my program tonight, I allude to the fact that it may be more complex than that. It may be something that is predestined. It could be that there are souls that follow one another through many different lifetimes.

My blog is short tonight but there is much to think about.

“When the white flame in us is gone, / And we that lost the world’s delight / Stiffen in the darkness, left alone / To crumble in our separate night;

“When your swift hair is quiet in death, / And through the lips corruption thrust / Has stilled the labour of my breath– / When we are dust, when we are dust!–

“Not dead, not undesirous yet, / Still sentient, still unsatisfied, / We’ll ride the air, and shine and flit, / Around the places where we died.

“And dance as dust before the sun, / And light of foot, and unconfined, / Hurry from road to road, and run / About the errands of the wind.

“And every mote–on earth or air– / Will speed and gleam down later days, / And like a secret pilgrim–fare / By eager and invisible ways,

“Nor ever rest, nor ever lie, / Till–beyond thinking, out of view– / One mote of all the dust that’s ‘I’ / Shall meet one atom, that was you.

“Then in some garden hushed from wind / –Warm in a sunset’s afterglow– / The lovers in the flowers will find / A sweet and strange, unquiet–grow

“Upon the peace; and, past desiring, / So high a beauty in the air, / And such a light, and such a quiring, / And such a radiant ecstasy there,

“They’ll know not if it’s fire, or dew, / Or out of earth, or in the height, / Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, / Or two that pass - in light - to light,

“Out of the garden - higher, higher…/ But in that instant they shall learn / The shattering fury of our fire, / And the weak and passionless hearts will burn

“And faint in that amazing glow, / Until the darkness close above; / And they will know - poor fools - they’ll know!- / One moment, what it is to love.”

Dust by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) from The Collected Poems of Rupert Brookepublished by Dodd, Mead, and Company and featured in the collection, English Prose and Poetry, selected and annotated by John Matthews Manly, published in 1907 by Ginn and Company, New York.

***

Don Jackson

It’s been sometime since I last posted a blog. I had major computer troubles. Words simply cannot describe what has gone on this past week. Suffice it to say that my computer gave up the ghost and I had to have another one built. I mentioned my friend who has been my go-to guy for computer problems. He literally burned the midnight oil this past week and was able to retrieve all my data and transfer the files onto this new machine. I can’t thank him enough for solving my problem and getting me back up and running once again.

In a past blog, I mentioned that he was also the one who was able to save my data when my computer burst into flames. This problem he solved was just as bad. Anytime I’m without a computer to do my work I consider a disaster. It makes me yearn for the days before computers.

In my home is the old ‘Remington‘ typewriter my father once owned. This machine would be considered an antique today, but the ribbon has a little life left in it still and, if you’re careful, you can still type out a letter or document. It may not be as clean as one printed out on a laser printer, but it’s still functional. This was the typewriter that my father used to write letters and do his reports for the Air Force club he was president and treasurer for when I was growing up. He used it when he brought work home from the office. This was the typewriter I borrowed to do my school projects on. It was also the machine that I first used when I had ambitions to one day become a writer. I cant’t tell you how many late nights I spent punching away at the keys developing storylines. I was a one-finger typist in those days. It was a noisy machine. All typewriters were noisy in those days. I remember walking by the typing class in my high school. The noise coming out of that room echoed down the halls. It was also the first sound that greeted you if you were called down to the office.

I learned how to type a little better in a radio newsroom I watched the newsmen attacking the keys writing the stories they would use during their hourly newscasts. Most of them typed with two fingers. It didn’t take me long to learn how to also use two fingers to type with. Old habits die hard, and I’m still comfortable being a two-fingered typist.

Much later in my career, I bought my first electric typewriter. In another radio newsroom I watched the news personnel use these large machined with the little spinning heads that made the keystrokes through the ribbon and onto the paper. I thought this was the wave of the future. The machine was relatively quiet, compared to the old typewriters I was used to, and I didn’t have to press has hard on the keys. I bought myself a small, portable machine with its own carrying case. No matter where I was, I could have access to a typewriter. Ribbons were always expensive and didn’t last very long. Occasionally, I would need to take the machine into the shop to be cleaned and repaired. Thankfully, most of the repairs were minor in nature. You didn’t need a specialist to try to retrieve your data from a typewriter.

Do you remember how we corrected spelling mistake? ‘White-out’ was a very popular product. After it dried, we would have to line up the mistake and re-type the right letter. There was even a strip that could be inserted that allowed you to correct your spelling errors. Old black-and-white movies showed writers ripping pages off the roller and tossing them into the wastebasket filled with crumpled pages. Computers have saved a lot of trees.

The last electric typewriter I owned before switching to a computer even had a small screen and some rudimentary memory. I could print on the small screen, and look at what was going to be printed on the page before it performed that function. It seemed so archaic when computers arrived in the office and for use at home.

Now I wonder how I ever did this show without one. In the past, I needed to pour through files and books looking for ideas and quotes, and then typing them onto the page. Now it’s a simple matter of accessing files on the computer and cutting and pasting. Over the past week, I learned to ‘cut and paste’ in the ‘real’ world.

I now have the latest generation of technology and software to work with. Throughout the day today I’ve been stumbling around learning the ins and outs of this new computer. And nearby is my father’s old ‘Remington’ and one of my electric typewriters in its carrying case. Over the past week, you don’t know how close I came to inserting a sheet of paper in one of them and seeing if I could remember how it used to work.

We would be well advised to find an old typewriter and some ribbon in an antique shop or on-line and keep it as a back-up. If it crashes, it’s because it’s been dropped on the floor. The on my father owned could survive. I’m not so sure about this new computer….

****

Don Jackson

I missed posting a blog last night because my computer is in the shop. Apparently, it’s almost ‘toast’. Not quite, but almost. I’ve been having a problem with my operating system over the past week or so but I didn’t realize how serious it really was. Fortunately, I have a great technician/IT specialist who knows how important this computer is to me, and he will work his ‘magic’ over the next day or so to get me back up and running.

You might remember a very early blog that I wrote that detailed the time my computer burst into flames. My tech was able to save most of the data from my hard drives. He has kept those burned-to-a-crisp hard drives to show his customers what he is capable of doing.

In the meantime, I will apologize in advance for any e-mail replies that will be late. I’m working on another computer that I am unfamiliar with, that doesn’t include all my files or the unopened e-mail that has already been downloaded into my computer.

Computers are wonderful tools - when they are working. Hopefully mine will be given a new lease on life over the next few days.

***

Don Jackson