Things Gained and Lost

This morning, as I moved the wet laundry into the dryer, I relived a sweet memory, or memories, of the years I spent hanging wet laundry out on a clothesline. It got me to thinking of all the changes we have all made over time, many to the good and some not so good. When I was in junior high school and had learned to type, I typed my older brother’s term papers on a manual typewriter. We had bought it second hand, the clacking keys sometimes stuck and made so much noise, that often when I got the pages to type late and was typing late into the night, I had to do it downstairs where I did not disturb the rest of the family. When the ribbon needed a change, I practically had to take a bath afterward because I got so dirty. And if we needed more than one copy, I had to deal with carbon paper—and the erasures on the copies that had to be dealt with. Later, when I was eight months pregnant, I typed my husband’s thesis on an electric typewriter. Because it was electric, each keystroke was equally hard, so the printed page appeared more even. There were no especially dark letters, but the erasure problem persisted, but since there had to be five perfectly printed copies, if there was a mistake the whole page had to be retyped. All of this brings me to today, as I sit here at my keyboard, looking at my monitor, making corrections as I go, and even having the machine itself call for spelling and grammar corrections, knowing that each printed copy, no matter how many I want, or whether I want them to be printed “portrait or landscape”, they will all appear exactly as I decide I want them to. And even if I decide I want to make a few changes later, I can do that too without starting all over. And how many other things can we point to and say pretty much the same things. I never go to the market or out in the car without my cell phone, and yet, for many years I managed to shop without calling home, and I managed to get around town usually without needing assistance. Yes, I am happier to know that my daughters have a cell phone should they need help in a hurry, but what has been the price of all of this convenience? Sticking to just these two examples, the price of having my computer is the fact that my desk is dedicated to it. Without a room dedicated to it, others have to be annoyed by the glow and the sounds, and the clacking of keys. One price of the convenience of email is that we no longer send love letters on beautiful stationary that can be tied up with a ribbon and put away to read later when we want to remember. It is also that we are forever at the mercy of advertisers, or the urgencies of others. It is the vulnerability of young children to predators on the internet. I fear that another cost is our attention span. When dial-up is so slow that we can’t stand it, waiting for an elderly person to finish crossing the street is at risk. Sometimes being able to call someone right now when I am in a foul temper, rather than waiting until I have gotten home and put away the groceries, giving me time to cool off and get some perspective is no advantage. I feel as if I am getting to be a curmudgeon, when I see people in the park talking to their phones, rather than to each other or their children, when I see teens in a group, all texting, rather than laughing and flirting and talking to each other, and it makes me sad and a little angry at the same time. We are losing the art of face to face conversation, of hearing each other, of considering the effects of our communications. I do not argue here for the abolition of technology or advancement, I guess what I want is an understanding of what can be lost if we do not take the gains in our stride.