I'm Back -- With Sore Thumbs

11/4/2019

How do those kids do it -- endlessly pecking away on their phones with their thumbs?

I just tried it for six days while my laptop was "in the shop."
Some very nice people sorted out my laptop issues, and got me back on line again.

Not a moment too soon. Typing seems natural to all those little bones in the hand, but two thumbs did not evolve so humans could look up stuff and chatter on line.

Now, back to work. Anything happen in the last six days?-- GV

Alan Rubin link

11/4/2019 05:29:54 pm

I am always amazed by how fast my college age grandchildren, as well has the fifth grade, high school and college students who I tutor, can use their thumbs. They type faster than I can talk or even think.

Leave them to their digit skills, the trick is to get them to talk. It is well worth the effort.

Altenir Silva

11/5/2019 08:17:41 am

Dear George,

As Woody Allen said, "Busy fingers are happy fingers."

Welcome back to share your thoughts and beautiful stories stored in your mind.

Best. Altenir

bruce

11/8/2019 08:13:18 am

george,

didn't miss much.

trump is still the greatest potus since the 12th century--at least that's what people are saying.

i often say the only thing i learned in high school was how to type.

i don't text so my thumbs are fine.

hope yours recover without delay.

bruce

Comments are closed.

QUOTES
More and More, I Talk to the Dead--Margaret Renkl

NASHVILLE — After my mother died so suddenly — laughing at a rerun of “JAG” at 10 p.m., dying of a hemorrhagic stroke by dawn — I dreamed about her night after night. In every dream she was willfully, outrageously alive, unaware of the grief her death had caused. In every dream relief poured through me like a flash flood. Oh, thank God!
Then I would wake into keening grief all over again.
Years earlier, when my father learned he had advanced esophageal cancer, his doctor told him he had perhaps six months to live. He lived far longer than that, though I never thought of it as “living” once I learned how little time he really had. For six months my father was dying, and then he kept dying for two years more. I was still working and raising a family, but running beneath the thin soil of my own life was a river of death. My father’s dying governed my days.
After he died, I wept and kept weeping, but I rarely dreamed about my father the way I would dream about my mother nearly a decade later. Even in the midst of calamitous grief, I understood the difference: My father’s long illness had given me time to work death into the daily patterns of my life. My mother’s sudden death had obliterated any illusion that daily patterns are trustworthy.
Years have passed now, and it’s the ordinariness of grief itself that governs my days. The very air around me thrums with absence. I grieve the beloved high-school teacher I lost the summer after graduation and the beloved college professor who was my friend for more than two decades. I grieve the father I lost nearly 20 years ago and the father-in-law I lost during the pandemic. I grieve the great-grandmother who died my junior year of college and the grandmother who lived until I was deep into my 40s.
Some of those I grieve are people I didn’t even know. How can John Prine be gone? I hear his haunting last song, “I Remember Everything,” and I still can’t quite believe that John Prine is gone.
-----
https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/30/opinion/death-grief-memory.html
Jan. 30, 2023

I'm Back -- With Sore Thumbs

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