The Art, Joys and Perils

Yesterday while attempting to analyze my reaction to a mundane internet item, I soon realized my emotion was a consequence of a conversation overheard long ago.

Then I wondered how long the art of conversation will exist in this new world of texting, instagram, facebook and youtube. Will the spoken word become extinct?

Oh I do hope not, but as I dwelled on the matter, I became aware that none of the above apps provide any real response. Granted they may evoke a fleeting smile, or a swift spear of indignation, but a valid emotion, nada. Nothing like a shared giggle when two women repeat a happy secret or an unexpected tear when words of sadness are exchanged.

The memory that provoked these thoughts goes back well into childhood. Long before computers or cell phones were even viewed on the distant horizon. Instead there were phone booths requiring a nickel deposit on most NYC street corners and few telephones, if any, in the tenements of Hells Kitchen.

However, there was ample communication, Clusters of neighbors could always be seen exchanging news, gossip and just sharing good wishes as they sat sprinkled along the stoops lining the streets.

And that is where I received a major part of my education. Of course not any of the three R’s, but opinions and yes, unfortunately also, fears.

One that came to mind recently was the prevalent concern in those days about being sent to a “home.” It was a recurrent topic discussed often as I stood quietly by my Mother’s side and listened. Sometimes, the conversation would begin with “Have you heard about .......? The children can’t care for them any longer and they are going to..,,,,,,,”.

The quiet despair in the voice would reach down and envelope me in a cloud, and I knew “a home” was not a good place to be sent

That threat of yesteryear has passed. Elders now have options for care, and when the younger generation is no longer in a position to assume the role of caregiver, their parents have a variety of choices, Independent, assisted or hospice care. The fear of yesteryear has disappeared at least for this one of life’s options.

However, others remain, and while they may be reported or possibly discussed on the various devices, none will have the passionate impact of the conversations I overheard so long ago. The information may or will most likely be accurate, but the rendition will be staccato evoking neither fear nor joy, and the emotional reaction far more lacking.

Another footstep in time has passed, neither good nor bad, merely different.