An Interlude

Back in the day, when my elder daughter was close to the age of my grandson, I wrote a column called “Kids … for Adults Only” for the Colorado Springs Sun newspaper.  I hope this 25-year stroll back in time provides a pleasant (and timeless) to the stresses of everyday life – to a time when electronic technology was just beginning to make our lives easier.

_______________________________ 

Kids … for Adults Only

January 7, 1985

This is supposed to be an era of computer literacy – the start of an eon of microchips, supercomputers and sophisticated sophtware.

No big problem, except that my 3-year-old daughter is in love with computers.  And microchips.  And electronic games.  And the little birthday cards that play “Happy Birthday to You” over and over.

And over.

And over.

Ad nauseam.

The attention span of a 3-year-old is supposed to be something between 18 seconds and the time it takes Big Bird to solve a problem for Mister Snuffleupagus.  Her dinner captures her attention for about three bites.  Unfortunately, her new $372.95 Texas Instruments special occupies her for about the same period – about three bytes, which in computer lingo is just about enough time to get Mommy out of sight before getting back into Jell-o spreading, book-tearing, window fingerprinting and any of three hundred seventy-two and nineteen-twentieths other 3-year-old occupations.

But greeting cards are entirely another matter.

Two years ago, we listened to “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” about 3,412 times between Valentine’s Day and Daddy’s birthday many weeks later.  It was “Happy Birthday” throughout much of the spring and a good time after the summer solstice.

The low-level batteries that fuel the electronic tunes never die.  I know it.  They never die.  Nor do the insipid little eight-bar tunes that run through your head three hours after you lay your insomnia-filled brain on the pillow at night.

There is a solution, however.

Last Christmas, “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas” – you know, “lean your ear this way” and all – electronically beeped through the house (all the creatures were stirring and it sounds like a mouse …) through about the 10th day of Christmas before we lost our cool.

Parents know, however, that you just don’t throw away a child’s favorite toy.  We tried hiding it.  You know, you figure that if the kid really wants it, you can always pluck it up and placate her.  Trouble was, we hid it between the couch cushions, sat on it once, and the gig was up.

A few hours later, we hid it again.  But for some reason, the battery short-circuited, and Jolly Old Saint Nick began leaning his ear – erratically, but often – over and over again.

And over.

And over.

Ad nauseam.

A taint of evil genius suddenly struck me between the ears.  The freezer.  The sealed-so-it-doesn’t-leak-any-of-that-cold-air freezer; the shut-it-up-so-the-food-don’t-thaw freezer.  If the cold air doesn’t get out and the warm air doesn’t get in, neither do the sound waves that bounce around in the air.

Sure enough, tucked away between the Fudgsicles and a breast of chicken, it was a silent night – all was peaceful, all was calm.

One drawback: For three solid days (we’ve got to write the company that makes these things; talk about durable), every time we opened the freezer door, we were greeted by Jolly Old Saint Nick, whose short-circuit was somehow kicked in the pants by the cold.  When we reached for a frosty mug, when we reached for the peas, the corn, the broccoli and the leftover barbecue beef that gave us indigestion.

Finally, peace was complete.  Three days of near-zero temperatures broke the spirit of the microchip, and the freezer serenades came to an end.

Victory was ours and the kid finally forgot.

….

Oh. An epilogue.  Middle of July, we defrosted the freezer.  Pulled out the card and tossed it in the trash, pulled the trash bag into the 35-gallon garbage barrel in the garage and closed the door …

You got it.  Two hours later I jumped in the car, slammed the door, rolled down the window, and from the trash barrel came … “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas, lean your ear this way.  Don’t you breathe a single …

Arrgghh!!

Next: Write It, edit it, re-write it, Ed-It

[For personal writing assistance, go to www.fixadocument.com]