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Chapter 2 still Waiting for y2k Roughly one month before his sixth birthday, my grandson shocked me with language he had picked up in kindergarten. I’m still having palpitations. No, Max didn’t utter a bathroom word. Or—be still my soul—something even more coarse. Nonetheless, I couldn’t have been more stunned if he had unleashed a torrent of locker-room invective. This occurred the afternoon he walked into my home office as I was huntingand -pecking on a computer keyboard, leaned his elfin frame against my left knee, looked up at me through innocent brown eyes, and said, ever-so-sweetly, “Dipsey, will you find some Internet access for me?” Frankly, I could have handled potty talk better. That part of grandparenting I understand. Kids come out of the womb knowing giggled expressions about “poop” and “pee” and “bottoms” will get an uncomfortable rise out of their elders every time. But the very notion that a five-year-old child would be so tech savvy that he would calmly request hookup to the World Wide Web? Pour me another one, bartender—and make it a double. Still numb, I hoisted Max onto my lap, tickled the necessary keys, and turned him loose. The tiny fingers I’ve grown used to watching as they snap Star Wars figures together seemed perfectly at ease on the mouse pad. He moved the cursor and double-clicked with no more conscious effort than sticking a spoon full of breakfast cereal into his mouth. What Max wanted to show me was a spelling game he’d learned at school. Naturally—hey, he’s a Venable!—the little varmint was an expert. Not only did he properly anticipate each successive word as it was about to appear on the screen, he also knew the correct arrangement of letters as well as the pronunciation. Still Waiting for Y2K 22 Daa-yumn! At his age, I was yet to learn “See Spot run.” Yet there he sat, reading complete sentences. I wanted to weep—in joy for Max embracing these exciting new horizons so eagerly and in sadness for my sorry techno-cretin state. Oh well. What goes ’round comes ’round. I distinctly remember my paternal grandmother, Angie Anderson Venable, describing in infinite detail the day the first “motor carriage” sputtered into tiny Jonesborough, Tennessee, the Washington County town where her father worked as a blacksmith. (I also distinctively remember thinking to myself, “Good Lord! It was just a car, for Pete’s sake! What’s so special about that?” Except I knew better than to take in vain any biblical expression, however mild, in the presence of Grandmother Venable.) I’ve tried to stay abreast of the times. Really, I have. The demands of my job mandate that I acquire at least a modicum of skills in modern communication. Unfortunately, my concept of “modern” communication peaked around, oh, 1992. Any time I’m in the presence of someone—young or old—when they whip out an iPhone and start fingering through photos and videos, or scrolling up and down their latest electronic messages, I resist the urge to (1) gawk in disbelief or (2) rapidly slobber an index finger between my lips—”bbbllllllpppp!”—like an ape at the zoo. Things simply move too quickly for me in this modern era. About the time I make a change, I realize I’m already three changes out of date. (Saaaay? When is all that Y2K stuff supposed to come down? Isn’t it going to mess up our microwaves or clocks or sundials or something? Note to self: Next time you’re at the office, ask if anyone remembers the date when this is supposed to occur. Probably wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.) Whatever happened to that blissful, Norman Rockwell time in my life when everything seemed so orderly, so sensible, so uncluttered, and easy to remember? This notion occurred to me when I read news accounts of the bickering between Congress and the U.S. Postal Service over the issue of home mail delivery on Saturdays. What?! No mail on Saturday? Whoever heard of such a preposterous idea? It doesn’t matter that my mail could stop being delivered this coming Saturday , and every Saturday thereafter for the next fifty years, and I’d probably never miss it. That’s not the point. The point is, we’ve always had mail delivery on Saturdays—I think you can find a requirement for it...

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