Calling Long Distance

Back in 1967, Cuppa and I had only begun to go out just a few months before I headed off to university. My place of residence that year was in an old building with long halls. It wasn't exactly the Ritz, but it was maintained and functional, and unlike the newer residences, the rooms were a good size. So, I was fine with the place as I was with the whole university experience, which I loved.

I had worked for a year after high school and was mature and motivated enough to really appreciate and enjoy higher learning. It was a nice campus, and my classes were relatively small, which worked well for me and how I best learn.

But I missed my Cuppa. We wrote a lot of letters back and forth, and I got home on most weekends, but I still missed her.

At some point I discovered that the school's telephone switchboard was located in my residence. It was the old fashioned kind but standard for its time. The operator would put the necessary plugs in the appropriate holes as they did in those days. I learned that the school had an open line to Toronto, and while it wasn't meant for frosh such as I, I could make use of it if I went down to the switchboard room, which I began to do with some frequency. Come eight or nine o`clock, I`d head downstairs and ask the operator if the line was free. More often than not it was, and he [sic] would let me dial Cuppa on the public phone in the switchboard room.

People were careful about calling long distance in those days. There were no long distance plans as there are now, and it was relatively expensive to talk across the miles, so making the trip downstairs was a way to save a few bucks and keep in touch with my sweetie.

I get all poignantly wistful thinking of those times on a Saturday morning forty-plus years later. Life was good. It still is, but you know what I mean.

Of Learning and Humor

I was a teacher, but it wasn't until quite recently that I discovered that I was a visual learner. It might seem perplexing that a teacher wouldn't know that, but back when I went to teachers college, I don't even recall being presented with theories about learning styles. Perhaps I wasn't paying attention, but it would seem to me that it would have been taught in psych class, and since that was my favorite (in that year), I rather doubt that it was covered.

Once I had been made aware of them, I would have guessed that I was an auditory learner, and I would have thought that because I rather liked and learned from lectures back in university days. But I was wrong, for a test to ascertain learning styles revealed me to be a visual learner. At first, it didn't seem to square with my liking for the lecture method, but then I was led to understand that it was the professor and his face that I was focusing on and taking cues from. That actually made sense since I could do that because most of the courses that I took were in small classrooms, and I also sat near the front. I could also recall a few large lecture halls and realized that I hadn't done so very well in that sort of impersonal atmosphere where I as far removed from the prof and his or her expressions.

Here's another manifestation of visual learning. As I've mentioned previously I don't do well with names, but I am very good with faces. In my last year of teaching two female students from previous years visited me in my classroom and asked me to sign their yearbooks. Having witnessed me struggle with names in the past, they were somewhat concerned that I might not know who they were. In point of fact, whether I could recall their names that day or not, I knew them very well — exactly where they had sat and what kind of students they had been. I may have even known them better for themselves (as opposed to just names) than most teachers.

I began contemplating this topic upon reading my latest novel, Pigs in Heaven, by Barbara Kingsolver. You see, I was all out of mysteries, so I was perusing Cuppa's bookcase, and she recommended this title. I took her word for it, and began to read it on the next day whilst Zach slept (mercifully, he usually sleeps well and long or I would have even less hair if that were possible). It wasn't long before I let out an "Aha! I've read this already." It wasn't the words, but when a certain picture (brought on by the words, of course) flashed into my head, I realized that I had visualized the scene before: someone falling down a hole of some sort by the Hoover Dam.

However, the whole topic brings another peculiarity to mind: that of humor. Why is it that I, a visual learner appreciate word-based humor (yes, I like puns), while Cuppa, the non-visual learner (who remembers books by their titles) loves visual humor. Yes, indeedy, she cracks right up at the sight of someone falling.

On Oscar night, for example, they played a time lapse of Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin sleeping in the same bed. Apparently, it was quite funny to see their gyrations. I say that because Cuppa, Thesha, and SILly were all howling unrestrainedly. Meanwhile, I sat there serious and puzzled because I honestly didn't find it funny. At least not very funny. Not howling funny. Not splitting your sides funny. Maybe a brief little snicker funny. Hmm, maybe not even that much funny.

In February of 1994 ...

... the Lillehammer Olympics were on, and at any given moment you could find me watching from my accustomed spot on the floor, for that is where I spent the best part of six weeks.

My troubles had begun one Sunday after I had gone to the gym. I hadn't done anything terribly strenuous that day but had spent quite a bit of time on the Stairmaster. On the way home, my back felt uncomfortable, but I thought little of it as I had experienced spasms and twinges from time to time for several years. It was the same on Monday morning, but off I went to my teaching job with my fellow car poolers, and I became more and more uncomfortable as we drove past the flat fields of rural Lambton County.

Soon after I started walking around the school, my back became even worse, and I realized that I wasn't going to make it. Fortunately, the first period of the day was my spare, so I had time to prepare some materials and drag myself around the school to photocopy some handouts for the supply teacher. I call ed Cuppa to come and get me after informing the vice principal that I had to go home. "I'll see you in three days," I said, because my history with muscle spasms and had informed me that I should be ambulatory in that time frame.

Except it wasn't muscle spasms this time around but a bulging L4-L5 disc. For weeks, I was unable to sit or stand for more than a few minutes without terrible leg pain, for that's where the pain was always worst. I could barely get through a shower before I was forced to throw myself on the floor in search of relief. Thankfully, I could be fairly comfortable when I was prone, preferably on my stomach.

And that's how I saw the Liilehammer Olympics: from the floor of our family room. From that position, I saw Nancy Kerrigan win the silver medal in figure skating, after having been assaulted by Tonia Harding's wrecking crew sometime earlier. Our Elvis Stojko also won the silver in the men's figure skating competition although I truly believe that, by rights, he should have been awarded the gold. I felt badly for poor Kurt Browning, in my opinion the best skater ever, as he fell out of the medals. I learned how awesome the Norweigians were at ski jumping and cross country skiing and how seriously that nation took those sports. During one long and particularly bad night when I knew that sleep would elude me, I watched endless hours of bobsleighing, all the while wishing for something more rivetting to take my cares away.

I say that I was on the floor for six weeks, but I think it was eight weeks before I actually got back to work. In the sixteen subsequent years, I have experienced constant numbness in my left leg and foot, but I have never had a total repeat of that back incident. However, I remain constantly aware of how fragile my back is, and I have to be very careful how I sit and move. Fortunately, despite some limitations, such as giving up tennis, I have been surprised to be able to carry on a normal life, for I thought that I would have experienced another major incident or two by now. In the back of my mind, I still rather expect worse to come to worst someday, but I also remain hopeful.

And that is how and why I remember one past Olympic event.

We Really Have Come a Long Way

An ad from 1977: $1495 for 64k of RAM.



From the 80's: a PC Jr with 128k for ~$1300.



My first machine, an Atari 800 with 48k of RAM, was purchased in the early 80's. It came with a cassette drive, and my monitor was an old TV. I remember that it took the cassette player 4 minutes to load a 16k game like Pac Man or Donkey Kong but I thought it was quite wonderful. Eventually, I was able to upgrade from the cassette by purchasing a single-sided, floppy disk drive for somewhere in the neighbourhood of $400 - $500 (the prices had come down to that). The great thing about that disk drive was that it included a printer port, which otherwise would have cost an additional $100 or so. I used that machine to learn how to word process and to work with spread sheets and used both in my teaching. Although we soon changed to photo copiers, schools were still using those old ditto machines back then, and I would run the masters through my trusty nine pin, dot matrix printer, which was also very expensive, and my days of writing my teaching aids by hand were history.

I think my first MS-DOS machine (before Windows 3.1, which I later installed on it) had 4 megs of RAM and a hard drive of 100 megs and cost around $2000, probably in the early nineties. In retrospect, one of the funniest things, in a way, that I ever heard was said in our staff room several months after that purchase. A teacher had bought an even newer and more powerful machine and declared that he would never have to buy another computer. Apparently, he was quite wrong, and I didn't need to feel jealous. I pretty well knew how wrong he was at the time, but I confess to still feeling slight pangs of envy.

The several computers that came after that one also cost in the neighbourhood of $2000. By comparison, my newest baby is a 64 bit machine with quad core processor, 8 gigs of RAM, a terabyte HD, a 22" monitor and costs a fair bit less than two grand. Unfortunately, in four years time, it too will be a clunker.

Note: Ads found at Vintage Ad Browser

Through The Glass Dimly

It never rains but it pours, or so the saying goes. There have been a number of related expenses since upgrading to the new computer, the latest being a new scanner. I have an old, fairly decent one, but it doesn't talk to Windows 7 terribly well. Even then, on my old computer, it wasn't able to cope with most of my slides, which I would like to digitize. The majority of these, from the seventies, aren't in very good shape; they're quite dark, and the old scanner resisted working with them.

I was gifted with a new little, dedicated slide scanner for Christmas. It worked, but I wasn't totally happy with it: neither the software not the results. So, yesterday, I returned it to Blacks and ended up at Henrys looking for a replacement. Somewhat surprisingly to me, I was pointed to flatbed scanners, and, even more surprisingly, I purchased one. I am finding that it will scan my slides, and although the results are problematic, I am usually able to salvage something. Like this one.


It's my dad, and I just used my fingers and toes to figure out that he in the picture and I at my computer right now are of a very similar age, probably within a year or at most two. But here's why I'm really posting this photo: the magnifying glass in his lap by the newspaper, the famous magnifying glass.

For as long as I can remember this "glass" has been around. If I have my stories straight, my maternal grandmothers used it, so it's at least 60 years old. At least!

In turn, both my parents used it. Not long before Mom passed on, she greatly amused us by proclaiming that she should get a new one because "They wear out, you know," for so it seemed that way to her dimming eyes. We still chuckle over her conclusion.

Now, Cuppa and I find ourselves using it from time to time to read the fine print, particularly on medications. Just two days ago, I was straining to determine just how many decongestants I should take and how often. After much squinting, even with the magnifying glass, we believe that it's "one or two tablets every four hours to maximum of six per day."

I think my magnifying glass is wearing out.

Meanwhile, it's now being used to some degree by the fifth generation of Grandma and hr descendants as Nikki Dee is quite prone to latching onto it when she's visiting. Looking at Buppa's enlarged facial features must work for her, however, as she hasn't complained that it's wearing out and needs to be replaced.

Of Absentmindedness and Snowblindedness

What a miserable day: windy, rainy and S N O W Y ! ! ! Yes, you read correctly — snowing on October 28! How dare The Weather Network Network?! They should know better, should know that it shouldn't snow for almost another month. Nevertheless, it has predicted that we can expect 10cm (4in) or more of the white stuff overnight — and it's highly doubtful that it will still be mixed with rain as the temperature drops this evening. Sigh.

To make matters worse, on this contemptible day, I managed to rouse my body enough to brave the elements and take a miserable walk through a parking lot for the purpose of stocking up on provender. And I did what I almost invariably do: played the part of the absentminded professor and overlooked something on my list. This time it was the potatoes.

I don't always miss something on the list, but on those rare occasions when I manage to keep my listy wits about me, I find that I have usually neglected to put something on the list in the first place. This usually happens when I list the ingredients for a recipe. That happened today too, but while in the store, I did remember that I had forgotten [sic — remembered that I forgot] to put beef broth on the list. There was something else too, but I've forgotten what it was ... although I remembered that I forgot it at the time. (There should be a prize for following that.)

It's hard being me, and I suppose living with me ... and perhaps in reading this blog. Fortunately, I don't need the potatoes for tonight as we're having linguine, but it will mean another trip to the store before I am darned good and ready. Grrrr.

(I know it's snowlblindness and not snowblindedness; I just liked it that way.)

The Mystery of Memory

I am struck again (I say again because I know I posted something along this line once before) at the oddity of memory or of my memory at any rate. When I was at the jam the other night, I recognized many faces and could just about place where I seen every one. Don, on my left, I have seen at several jams, two workshops, and talked to briefly in the downstairs washroom about two years ago. I even recall what we said. To him though, I looked only vaguely familiar. On the other hand, he seems to remember every tune he's ever played.

There was the guitar player two down of my right; I have only seen himonce but I can tell you where I saw him, in what chair he was sitting, and what tune I requested when he asked. The guy to his right, I sat next to but one at a workshop in Almonte last June, and the lady to his right, I saw once at the same jam as the guitar player. I know it was on or near Robbie Burns Day because I remember her referring to it and leading in some Scottish pieces in homage. And so on. To all of these people, however, I looked only vaguely familiar. On the other hand, you may have noted that I didn't refer to any save one by name even though we went around the circle to introduce ourselves. However, while I don't do names very well, I'd be almost willing to wager that many of them will be able to call me by name if we meet again soon.

I don't know what it is with me and names, but I simply don't retain them very well. Just the other day, for example, Cuppa mentioned the name of the street just one over from us, and I immediately thought she was referring to the the one up from us. I feel kind of dumb when I do that ... and maybe I am. You'd think one should know the neighbouring streets after all because I do turn onto that one daily as it connects to mine.

My odd memory patterns also turn up a lot when watching television. We've watched countless mysteries, and while they do tend to blur and run together, I'll frequently begin to remember incidents and sometimes be able to predict them. This is while Cuppa is almost willing to swear that she's never seen it before. On the other hand she has a great memory for anecdotes or tidbits of information such as you should RICE a sprain, whatever the heck that means. Meanwhile, I sometimes do well with numbers. For example, I might be able to pick up a cookbook and go directly to the correct page (at least if I've looked at it somewhat recently).

I suppose it's down to learning styles. Some are visual learners while other brains respond to different stimuli. I still find it all remarkable, however.

Whatever the whys and wherefores, I still feel extraordinarily dumb when the name of the neighbouring street eludes me.

A Meaningless Memory

Last night, the author of the book I had picked up mentioned that he learned the books of the Bible at an early age. That triggered a memory. I don't mean a repressed memory or something that I had totally forgotten: just something that I hadn't remembered for a long time.

I recalled standing at front of the church, a fairly large one, and reciting that very same list: Genesis through Revelation. It seems to me to have been a challenge that was brought up in Sunday School when I was about eight years old, so I did it. One other girl also recited that day, and one boy and girl, slightly younger, recited the New Testament only.

I'm not sure why only two (or four) of us out of maybe a few dozen kids completed the task because I don't recall finding it at all difficult. My memory informs me that we had been given a keyring with 66 coloured cards attached, one for each book. No doubt, the cards were to be a memory aid, but I rather doubt that I used them much. I guess I didn't need to because I don't think it was difficult for me to learn and memorize things back then.

Oddly enough, as I recall it now, I also don't think it was difficult for me to get up in front of everyone. It seems to me that I just did it without fuss, muss or bother. Being onstage has never bothered this introvert too much although speaking up in certain situations might. I know; I'm strange.

There is absolutely no point to this post: no moral or lesson. It's just a meaningless memory that has now been recorded for however long Google keeps it in storage, which could be a long, long time, I suppose.

Memory Lane

Just the other night, I had a strange memory. I happened to get up and look out the window during a snowfall. The street behind us hadn't yet been plowed. This caused me to recall Mr Workman who worked at snow clearing for a nearby town where I used to teach. I remember his daughter saying how he'd be so anxious for it to snow, so they would call him into work.

The thing is, I don't know Mr Workman, and his daughter never told me that. It was my daughter who told me that Jodie had relayed that piece of information to her. Maybe I remembered it because I had once taught Jodie before Thesha ever know her. Thing is: why would I retain a useless bit of trivia like that — for about 15 years now?

Both you and I have heard that we only use 10% of our gray matter, but I have recently heard that it's not at all true, that our brains get quite full. They get so full that at a certain age the only way to learn new stuff is to forget old stuff. Maybe that isn't true either, but it was said by an expert/scientist, so I tend to give it some credence.

Question: if my brain is so darn full, why it would choose to hang onto that rather useless tidbit, especially in light of all of the things that I do forget?

That leads me to another memory prompted by reading State Street today. He remembers crying after bloodying a kid's nose. Of course, that brought a somewhat similar memory of my own to the surface. Well, it wouldn't be anyone else's memory would it?

Preston and I were arguing about something or other, and I guess we put our dukes up, and I smacked him in the jaw. That startled me so much that I turned and ran away. I guess if I hadn't, I would have had to fight some more, and I knew that I could handle him, and I didn't really want to do it.

I suppose that I am a pacifist at heart and was even then at the tender age of nine or ten.