I was born in a post World War II world, in which mothers stayed home and wore aprons.
Fathers left every morning and drove cars to work.
Fans, not air conditioners, made summer's warmth bearable, owning a phone meant being on on a party line, and credit was the local grocery store owner allowing you to run an account.
Meat was cut by a butcher you greeted by name before he handed you your order carefully wrapped in crisp paper.
Bananas were yellow, tomatoes had flavor, and cilantro was unknown throughout most of the U.
S.
I remember when our phone number stretched from five digits to ten, and the day we were all herded into the school auditorium to learn about the new kid on the block - the zip code.
During the summer, we stayed up late into the night and watched Sputnik as it passed by overhead.
I've lived through the Age of Aquarius, the deaths of the Kennedy brothers, Martin Luther King, and Elvis, and now I stand by and watch the dumbing down of America.
My hair has been cut with a ducktail at the back, pulled into a ponytail, and allowed to sway softly somewhere south of my waist.
Hemlines on my skirts have been mini, maxi, and slightly below the knee.
I have printed with a pencil, learned script with a fountain pen, and now rely on a rollerball.
I learned to type on a black Underwood with a cloth ribbon, graduated to an MTST the size of a desk, and then traded up to an MIS that proudly displayed tape flowing around two wheels.
I spoke DOS, learned Windows, and utilized Google.
Now I know that I have reached that stage where I'm older and more tired than most, but I'm not dead yet, as those of you who have read A Tired Older Woman: Loses Weight and Keeps It Off! can attest.
In fact, I've worked hard to stay very much alive.
I can still learn.
In fact I make it a point to learn several new things every day, at least one of them technical, even though writers by definition are verbal.
No one can say that I haven't been flexible or willing to embrace change has it greeted me.
For once in my life, though, I find myself overcome by the newest technological breakthrough - social media.
Facebook I can handle, although I don't see much use for it.
Twitter, on the other hand, has stumped me.
Thinking she would help me get started, a friend bought me what I'm sure is a perfectly well written booklet designed to unveil the mysteries of Twitter to the complete uninitiated.
I admit to being somewhat technically challenged, but with Twitter - no matter what I do - I just don't get it.
Partly, I'm convinced because the software doesn't like me.
Every morning I arise determined to maintain a good attitude.
Then I dawdle...
And I dawdle...
And I dawdle some more...
Putting off the inevitable.
Finally, I settle into my comfortable chair with my laptop and prepare to do battle - an oversized mug of coffee by my side providing Dutch courage, @Annie_Acorn.
Taking a deep breath, I log in and begin to scroll through the verbal noise, looking for a retweet possibility or two.
Just when I find one, the god of Tweet refreshes the system, and the entry that I was eyeing completely disappears, leaving me to stare at a half-naked photo that a young man has chosen to represent himself.
Undaunted, I search for a nice picture of someone to whom I might reply in an effort to make a connection, and a smiling face greets me - over and over, one above the other, in a series of tweets.
The first one quotes Voltaire, and the second contains a familiar verse from the Bible.
I'm encouraged, and my eye continues down the page.
The third tweet refers to the hot, humid day and, living in the D.
C.
area, I prepare to commiserate.
Fortunately, my eye slips a tweet further before my slow reflexes can click on my mouse.
The gal with whom I am about to communicate is tweeting from prison, where she resides for having committed a murder.
Refusing to admit defeat yet, I track another series of tweets upward, following a fragile looking young woman as she travels from place to place through a major city.
Coming from an earlier generation, I am concerned about the way she is exposing her location to a possible stalker.
Reaching the "What's happening?" box, I pause to think of something to tweet to a world that I'm sure isn't exactly holding its breath, just as a new message falls into line from a long term widow.
Today, I learn, would have been her 25th wedding anniversary, although she has no idea why she is tweeting it.
With a click of my mouse, I prepare to reply, "My husband died 18 yrs ago.
You never forget those you love.
" I click on the tweet button and let out a sigh.
Despite the weird exhibitionists and mindless verbal noise, I have reached across time and space, and hopefully, I have made someone I don't even know feel just a little better.
Was it worth it? For her? Maybe.
For me? Not so much.