Yeah, I know. There’s a typo in the title. It’s an old cartoon joke. But digital natives really are united and that spells trouble for boomers.

Why trouble? Think about it. Who will be left knowing how to read a map? If Google Maps tells you turn by turn how to get someplace, a digital native will never know the joys (and frustrations) of reading a paper map. And figuring out how to fold the damn thing back up.

Who will be left knowing how to drive a stick shift? Not only drive one, but also know how to roll down a hill to jump start it when the battery is dead. See if a digital native can do that trick.

Ironing? Does anyone under 50 know how to use an iron to get the wrinkles out of a fine linen blouse? Hint: you need to own an iron and an ironing board. That’s why permanent press was invented. Besides, the wrinkled look is cool.

Writing a letter? Wouldn’t that be a shock if you received a letter written by a digital native. For one thing, they don’t really teach cursive writing, so if you did get a letter, it would be print lettering. Better yet, they would type it on their computer and then print it out and stick it in an envelope. Please DO NOT USE THE COMIC SANS FONT!

Spelling!! Don’t get us started. If you don’t know how to use a dictionary, I’m talking about a printed on paper bound book, then you might be a digital native that only knows how to ask Siri or Alexa how to spell a word. And texts? Who cares if some of the words don’t make sense. You get the general drift of what they are trying to tell you. Maybe.

If we thought spelling was a problem for digital natives, it pales when compared to what’s happened to proper grammar. I can imagine boomer professors laughing hysterically when they read college student essays and exams.

The good news for digital natives is that they can solve any problem with a computer or a smart phone. So why worry about any of these aforementioned arcane life skills?

Unless you can’t get WIFI.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

I have a watch that talks to me. It tells me, for instance, every once in a while, to stop what I’m doing and just think. Meditate, if you will, for a few moments.

This watch is not unusual. Many people have these watches. They monitor your movements, tell you how many calories you’ve burned on your walk. How many heart beats you have per minute. What the weather is and what you can expect in the coming hours and days. This is only the beginning.

But my watch, I fear, has gone rogue. For one thing, it has an uncanny ability to tell me to stop what I’m doing and meditate exactly when my writing is flowing beautifully. Red hot. When I mustn’t be distracted or I will lose that coveted flow. This is supposed to help me remain a balanced person but, in fact, it pushes me to the precipice, the very edge, of writer’s block.

And my watch is not as smart as it thinks it is, either. The other day I was lying down on my couch, talking to a friend on the phone, when it popped up with the comment, “It looks like you’re taking a walk. Would you like to keep a record?”

Really? Is that what it looked like?

I bought the watch because it can be programmed to notify someone if the wearer falls and can’t get up. That seemed like a better option than one of those devices you wear around your neck. Not that I’m falling all the time. I have taken a couple tumbles in the last few years but I have always been able to get up on my own. But who knows? We’re, none of us, getting any younger. I told my daughter that she would receive a notification on her cell phone if I took a spill and couldn’t pull myself up off the floor. She rolled her eyes. Kids. What do they know?

I hope to make peace with this device, which truly has some useful features. And as for the problem of the jarring reminders to meditate when I’m in the middle of writing the great American novel, well, I can always take it off when I’m writing. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to roll off my chair when I’m in the middle of a sentence. Yet.

Norma Libman is a journalist and lecturer who has been collecting women’s stories for more than twenty years. You can read the first chapter of her award-winning book, Lonely River Village, at NormaLibman.com.

I’ve seen her walk by my beach lately. Probably a neighbor. Not many Lake Michigan regulars after Labor Day. She looks like Barbie would look, thirty-five years later, with a little extra ballast to counterweight her formidable bowsprit. I don’t know if you believe me or not, but I’m not a dirty old man. I wasn’t leering. Besides there’s a freshening breeze and she’s fully dressed. But somehow, she must have realized I was watching and smiled at me—a safe old fart.

She squats in the gravel windrow along the shoreline to grab a shot of the roiling surf. Probably using her cell phone to show all her ‘best friends forever.’ I shake my head. Why do I dismiss her, not take her seriously? Could it be her resemblance to the iconic doll? Her multiple toe rings, nails painted with little American flags…when’s Memorial Day again?

Stop it, I tell myself. What makes me so special? Me, who could be her father, and she who could have my grandkids? Am I that prejudiced, that simple-minded in my evaluation of people? What does she have to do, use five syllable words to impress me? Show me her diploma?

I ease out of my beach chair to join her. As I get closer I can see that she is using a DSLR with a zoom lens. Huh. I stand behind her a moment before remarking, “Shoot much?”

“Oh, yeah, all the time.”

She can say that again. In the space of those two sentences she must have taken ten shots. Digital cameras! You can just shoot and shoot and shoot, but you still have to edit sometime, go through every shot and cull the best. Might as well do it beforehand. God, I sound like some old duffer… ‘why back in my day…’”

“Look,” she says, offering her ten-minute shoot in the playback/viewfinder. I have to admit I’m impressed. It’s a kind of rolling contact sheet.

“Very nice,” I say. “You’ve got a good eye. Although a couple of these could be framed a little better.”

“Do you shoot?”

“Yeah, I used to. I was a hospital photographer before everything was digital and you had to wait two days to see what you got.”

“Oh, man, I sure could use some coaching.”

“You don’t need much. You’ve got some great shots there.”

“But what did you mean about ‘framing’?”

“Oh, you know, the old law of thirds.”

“Ah, from art history classes,” she says. “Composition. I never thought to apply it to photography. Show me which shots you meant.”

Soon we are sitting on a driftwood log and I’m drawing diagrams in the sand and taking pictures to illustrate concepts. There were times in my youth when discussing exposure with an attractive woman would’ve taken a different slant. But at my age, this is as good as it’s going to get. And I was even invited to be her friend on Facebook…whatever that implies.

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara and his wife live in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/

Mom knew Dad loved bacon. It was why she hated it. To hate something your husband loved, that was her way to apply thumb screws.

I wondered: Why bacon? I would understand hating the smell of shit. But bacon? Is there anything better? Garlic, maybe, but bacon is tops.

As she aged, Mom began to focus on hate. “Can you believe that guy?” she said one day, after their neighbor poked his head over the fence and said “Hi.”

Mom died a few years back. Every time I make bacon, I think of how she hated it and Dad loved it. He always ordered it, with breakfast at Denny’s (“Always consistent”). He loved the smell. The crunch. The way it would bathe like a robin in a birdbath full of runny yolk. The way the bacon and yolk would sit like chatty friends on the lip of his toast (“Dry”) as it rose toward his mouth.

It was a small thing that made life worth living.

It was a small thing that drove Mom nuts.

Anyone who didn’t order pancakes, like her, was suspect. She and Dad were together forever, but something ate at the heart of them. Dad never cooked. Late in their lives, when they spent their days dying, I would go over early before she awoke, and make Dad bacon and eggs.

So as not to wake her, I would gently remove the pan from the cupboard, set it softly on the burner, turn on the flame. I needed the fan, to evict the smell, but it was noisy. I just hoped it didn’t wake Mom.
I peeled the bacon from its package and set three strips in the pan. And waited. Waited for the sizzle, the fat bubbles, the aroma, for it to be done, I hoped, before Mom would appear.

“What’re you doin’?” she growled one time, suddenly in the doorway to the hall, from the depths of her housecoat and slept-in hair. “Why’re you using that pan?”

Dad just stood there, waiting for me to finish. I would greet my mother, break eggs into the pan, and wait in silence before sliding the Evil Bacon and eggs onto Dad’s plate. He always smiled as he thanked me and took it to the table. It was all I could do.

Stuart Watson lives in Hood River, OR