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Today we have cell phones to relieve the stress of not being able to locate someone in the event of an emergency. Well there sure must be a lot of emergencies because every other driver operating a motor vehicle has an antenna protruding from his ear.
Unless of course you live between the hills of Coon Valley, in which case that cell phone connection is about as good a tin can hooked on a string from the east to the west hill with birds perched in the middle.
Personally, using the cell phone is like playing the lottery for me. I know that I'll never be a millionaire if I don't buy a ticket, and I can't talk to anyone if I never turn on my cell phone.
The part of that scenario that some people, including my children, don't understand is that if I need to talk to someone I just turn the cell phone on and call. I conserve the battery, save money on air time and avoid unnecessary stress.
Now who's the smart one? My children think I'm crazy, but I know the truth. They just refuse to believe it. After all, aren't parents suppose to be stupid?
Then we have the Internet in all its infinite wonders. It can provide people with a world of wisdom and a head full of knowledge bringing new meaning to the phrase big-headed. It can bring the finest merchandise in the world to your doorstep in a matter of days with the click of a few keys.
Just beware where you click because that $100 bottle of fine wine you thought you ordered might turn into a case of wine at the rate of $100 a glass. The payment will have cleared on your credit card before you realize the mistake, creating more headaches than a cheap bottle of wine from the corner convenience store could ever cause.
If you pay the price for DSL Internet, that mass world of knowledge can be flashing in front of your eyes faster than the speed of light. You'll never be left at the gate according to the latest advertisement I read.
Now are they talking about the pearly white gates, because I'm not sure we need to visit the big guy upstairs with record speed. His e-mail and fax machine are probably in overdrive anyway.
Speaking of e-mail what about all that SPAM. I grew up believing Spam was manufactured by Hormel as a poor man's version of ham. Now it's all over the airwaves creating problems bigger then communication specialists can fix. You can't slap it in a sandwich with a little mustard, you simply have to bite the bullet and watch it explode all over the screen as it devours the computer hard drive.
In the last week, I've received more personal e-mails from people I've never met than I can shake a stick at, as my mother used to say.
I'm not equipped to fix Susan's garbage disposal, and I'm really sorry that Joan had to move away so Andy wouldn't bother her anymore. Randy's car is on the fritz, and he is afraid to ask his parents for any more money to fix it.
I envy Rachel who is moving to the base of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, and I'll gladly visit her if she doesn't mind strangers staying for the weekend.
Erin has deep feelings for Mike, but Mike only has eyes for Melissa. Should she tell him how she feels? I'm not the person to ask, and I'm sure Erin never meant to ask me or the 2,000 other people who probably received the same message.
I suggest Erin grab the old-fashioned telephone so she can reach out and touch the person she wanted advice from in the first place.
Does anyone remember the way things used to be done before calculators and cash registers told store clerks how much change to return to the customer? I find it disheartening that if the power goes out, so does the brain of the average human.
What happened to old-fashioned communication, when children were called to supper by mom yelling out the back door because her voice carried for six blocks and every kid in the neighborhood heard her? Today they'd probably call that some form of child abuse. Of course, that was when children played outside and mom cooked.
Today kids are in the house watching cable television, checking e-mails, talking on cell phones or driving to pick up pizza at the corner store because it's was too far to walk to the end of the block.
Dorothy Jasperson is the editor of the Westby Times. She can be reached at (608) 634-4317 and by e-mail at ... oh, never mind.
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