No Internet

Note:  Our Internet was down all day yesterday.  I wrote this post, thinking it would come back on soon.  Since it never did, I'll just post it under yesterday's date. 

Also, I've reverted to the old blog template and have noticed a need to do some tweaking to get it back to normal. The new template was nice but it lacked some of the features I use on a regular basis.   

If all goes right, I'll have a posting at the usual time this morning.  Thanks for your patience

Could it be that Steve Jobs’ death yesterday caused such a seismic shock over the universe that even the Cyberspace shut down for a massively monumental moment of silence?

That’s what I am led to believe this morning with no access to the outside world.

 I could turn the radio on, but 5:32 is just too early.  The paper probably hasn’t even arrived.  Besides, it’s dark out there, and I’d rather wait until daylight to retrieve the paper after leading my horses to pasture.

My Internet shut down yesterday afternoon for an hour or so, but that was before Steve Jobs died.  Maybe the temporary stoppage was foreshadowing an even bigger event.

It was raining yesterday, and I figured the wet dish was causing the problems.  I also figured if that much moisture would cause dish problems, we’ve got real challenges ahead when the snow starts falling.

This morning I’m inclined to believe something else has caused the outage.

Such interruptions in my early-morning love affair with the World Wide Web would usually stir up instant outrage from this geek, but age and patience must be catching up with me. 

I can remember times, not too many years ago, when I almost resorted to using a hammer on my computer when it refused to work for any reason, including Internet outages.

Now, I look at such situations as opportunities.  Here’s a chance today to just sit here and write while sipping on my first cup of coffee.  I can reflect.  I can take cues from noises downstairs where Bill is moving from place to place in the kitchen.  Or,  I can get creative. 

This morning’s post may be a mixture of all three.  I just don’t know yet.  You see when writing time comes for me each morning, I’m never quite sure what’s going to land on my computer screen. 

Sometimes, I’m rather amazed at the strings of thoughts and words emanating from the process of banging on these keys, sipping on coffee and staring intently at the screen as a new chapter of  early-morning thoughts unfold.

One thought that just flipped into my mind was a discussion the other day at Yoke’s Pharmacy.  I love that place and frequent the counter quite often, picking up meds for my mother.

The experience transcends far beyond just leaning on the counter and poking the “no” button on their little machine when it asks if I want counseling about my mother’s drugs.

My almost-weekly visits to Yoke’s Pharmacy also involve spirited give-and-take banter with the staff, especially when Kim, one of the pharmacists,  is there.  Kim and I seem to share many similarities in how we view the world. 

Call it a bit of curmudgeonism or semi-rebellion----whatever it happens to be---we’re both mildly resistant to some expectations of society and we love to share our mutual light-hearted gripes on what we feel are rigid standards imposed on us---standards we may sometimes choose to bypass.

Whatever the topic, it’s always accompanied by healthy hilarity and quite often with an unfortunate person standing behind me---five feet away from the counter, of course.  

I’m sure this poor soul wishes I’d just shut up and get out of there so THEY can get up to the counter, get their bag of pills and flee.

I often leave the pharmacy window apologizing to the victim who’s had to wait while the staff and I giggle and “finish that thought.”

The other day our subject of discussion stemmed from the fact that my signature-- validating that I did, indeed, pick up Mother’s drugs--turned out totally substandard from any level of penmanship that Mrs. Marvel Ekholm, our principal and sixth-grade teacher,  would accept from her Lincoln Elementary School students.

Tammy, a pharmacy tech, then commented that “they aren’t even teaching cursive penmanship in school anymore.” 

To which I wondered out loud “why we ever needed it anyway.”

“My personal signature is all I can think they’d need [in cursive],”  Bruce, a former student and pharmacist, surmised.

Soon, we had jumped into full conversational mode, happily agreeing that we probably all could have gone through life without ever knowing the word “cursive,” let alone employing it.   

Sorry, Mr. Palmer.

I then told the story of how Bill’s “Love letters” to me back in the early ‘70s all arrived with envelope and pages carefully printed.   After receiving several letters, I had asked him why he never wrote “long hand.” 

About a week later, I received a letter in the mail with no return address from what was surely a second grader struggling with this new handwriting. 

Turns out this “second grader” was my future husband, 23 years old and a college student at the time.

“Does this answer your question?” the letter inside began.

Yes, it did. 

Bill had never quite mastered cursive during his Louisiana penmanship instruction, so he printed everything---even his signature.

Sorry, Bruce.  Even a signature in print rather than Palmer method will work.

Well, by the time I’d told my story about Bill, a lady had shown up in line behind me. 

Jo Anna, who stood behind me the week before,  hadn’t minded our overtime on the pill visit.  In fact, she even took the opportunity to chat with me about fall canning as I stepped away from the counter.

This week’s lady, however, clearly looked as if she was on a mission.  So, I wasted no time stepping away, but as I did, suggested it would be fun to explore all the things in life “they” told us we must do to survive, only to find them obsolete years later. 

So, I wonder if ever there will be a time that posting a morning topic on my blog will go the way of the buffalo.  I can remember a few years ago when people just couldn’t grab on to this web publishing concept called “blob.” 

In tribute Steve Jobs, whose visions and applications, got me into this daily routine anyway, I must continue publishing my morning thoughts, at least for a while. 

Yes, I’ve used my share of Mac products and loved them.  Just can’t afford ‘em now.

That aside, I’m wondering how long it will be before they turn my Internet back on so I can issue my personal condolences to the family of this man who molded our society as we know it.

Steve Jobs, RIP.  Your computer achievements have saved an entire generation from Mr. Palmer’s methods of writing with a pen and pencil.