Grand Grandparents and Elf-Mail

by Kaya

My grandparents are amazing. In their lifetime they’ve had to adjust to some of the most radical and rapid changes in human history. Perhaps more than any generation they’ve had to adapt in how they work, travel, communicate and generally live their lives. For example, my grandfather grew up without light bulbs that turned on when you clap. And in my grandmother’s house, they lived contently without a 5-Disc CD changer. Truly ‘America’s greatest generation.’

While their adapting to modern technology is admirable, the car continued to prove to be a challenge. They say that practice makes perfect, however my grandparents had driven for years and their skills were far from perfect. It might be stereotypical to say that my grandparents are bad drivers. It would also be frighteningly accurate.

My grandmother drove in sort of a “perhaps-it’s-in-my-best-interest-to-slow-down-at-every-intersection-regardless-of-who-might-have-the-right-of-way” style, while my grandfather subscribed to what might be referred to as a “Braille-style” of navigation. Just let the bumps in the road guide you. Perhaps he thought the lane dividing dots in the road were transmitting secret Morse code messages. Maybe driving this way would reveal universal truths or the location of Jimmy Hoffa. All I know is that it freaked me out a bit…it also felt curiously energizing as the car seat vibrated my bottom. Oh, maybe that’s the reason he drove on the bumps.

As time went on, my grandfather went from being a bad driver to being a seriously bad driver. His vision got worse and he even had the cornea in his right eye replaced. The cornea was kindly donated by someone who had died in a car accident while driving drunk. He often joked that the eye was still drunk and didn’t see so well. Having a part of you replaced so you can drive better by someone who died in a car accident seems a bit odd to me, but thank goodness folks are willing to donate their organs. A donated organ (musical or body) is truly a wonderful gift.

As far as I’m concerned, once I’m done with using this body-shell, feel free to grab whatever you might need. My organs, my hair, my skin, my shoelaces, whatever. I’d prefer that my body be used to make some sort of expensive and highly sought-after breast moisturizer only used by supermodels and Alyssa Milano, but I’d be fine with helping out other folks in need, too. Think a Jim-skinned rug would look good in your dining room? Go for it, I’m done with it. Any men want to have a more accurate way to keep your dress shoes ready to wear? Stop using those cedar insoles (?) -- use my feet. I won’t be walking anywhere. Always wanted a human skull to practice your soliloquy for ‘Hamlet?’ Look no further.

Not that I’m in any kind of a rush to donate my organs. My first choice is to run my organs into the ground, squeezing every last bit of worth out of them shortly before my 22 year-old jazzercise instructing trophy wife smothers the life out of my 100 year-old face with her taut, tan breasts. However, if that scenario did not come to be I’m just saying that I’d be fine with my funeral doubling as an auction of sorts. “I see $74 for the left nipple, do I see $75? Yes, $75 from the jazzercise instructor in the leotard.” And If I died around Christmas time, perhaps my brother could dress like Santa and pass out “a little slice of Jim” to everyone. Ah, who am I kidding? What are the odds that I’d die so close to Christmas. And, if so, where would my brother get a costume on such short notice?

So, even with his bionic/6-million dollar man cornea, the state agreed with what his family had said for years; grandpa shouldn’t drive anymore. As he began to rely more and more on my grandma for his connection to the outside world, the Internet began to creep into his life. While he was less able to physically visit his friends, my brother had him e-mailing friends and surfing the Web in no time.

I’ve always been incredibly impressed by grandparents’ willingness to work with computers. Not everyone is so courageous as to take on a new and daunting task when in their late 80s. If you’ve been able to get by without something for 85 years, it’s pretty easy to say you can do without it for a few more.

Unless you’re Amish or comfortable buying porn in an actual, physical store, you should know how operate a computer. You don’t have to be able to locate and download obscure David Hasselhoff b-sides or hack into the FBI’s files on Area 51, but it’s important to have some experience with a tool that is used by billions of people each day.

I don’t get folks who say they don’t “do” computers. Even without the sexual connotation of that statement, it sounds crazy. It’s like not “do”ing the phone. “Yeah, I know it’s easier to communicate with a phone than smoke signals, but I don’t really do phones.” Put down your smoky blanket Chief Outtatouch and watch this mpeg of a woman peeing on a guy wearing a diaper. Trust me.

Tutoring my grandparents on the computer is tricky. When every concept is new, it’s tough to move quickly.

“Okay, grandma, I want you to double-click on that icon. Yep, click it twice. Twice. No, two times in a row. Like, ‘click-click.’ Almost. Okay, now click it twice but without moving your mouse. ‘Click-click.’ Okay…why don’t ya just let me get past this part for you.”

Since my grandma understands the computer slightly more than my grandfather, she has total freedom to explain to him how things work as she chooses. She tells him that his e-mail didn’t send because it was too long. In reality, she has no idea why it didn’t go through, but this makes sense to her. And with no one around to disagree, it becomes truth. “You used too many vowels! That tires out the computer. You should use more consonants when you write letters. And ease up on the capital letters!”

It’s like watching myths being formed. Like the Greeks explaining the rising and setting of the sun by a great chariot in the sky pulling the sun across the heavens, my grandma explains how the computer works. “Your e-mail message is sent through the phone lines to a village of dancing elves. They, in turn, fly to the phone pole closest to your recipient and, once they’ve tapped into the right connecting line, re-type the exact message. This is why it’s called ‘e-mail.’ It stands for ‘Elf-Mail’.”

Perhaps the most entertaining part is hearing my grandfather tell us what the computer “said” to him. He recites what the computer text “said”, but in doing so gives the computer a personality. With a furrowed brow and his index finger shaking, “You do not have the required permissions to access this page,” he says sternly. When he tried to erase something off of his desktop he told us with one eyebrow cocked and a smirk on his face that computer asked, “Are you sure you want to delete that?” I wish my error messages held such wonder!

It’s refreshing to be around someone so appreciative of the digital age. He lights up at the fact that he can instantly communicate with someone from another part of the world. His eyes grow big as he tells me of making new online buddies. He reminds me of all the wonderful possibilities the Web holds. If you really think about it, the power of the Internet is baffling. Imagine…anything being possible. It only takes imagination and drive. I mean, you could have an mpeg of dozens of women peeing on a guy wearing a diaper. Just imagine.

Dream the impossible dream.