Ease of Use

Apparently my husband Mark thinks that I’m a genius. He believes I’m on the same level as a rocket scientist, in fact. He told me this on our morning walk along the sparkling snowy Boulder bike paths.

Why does he believe I am a genius? Because I understand computers; that is, I can usually fix problems and perform simple maintenance activities on our home computer, which remains to him a complete and utter mystery. Computers are such a mystery to Mark that a question I might ask in preparation for a backup, like, “You do keep all your documents in your ‘My Documents’ folder, don’t you?” confounds him.

And yet, Mark was an early computer user. He was using the first computer I bought for myself, an Osborne Kaypro II, in the early 1980’s. He wrote an entire novel, as well as numerous short stories, using that computer. What’s that sonny? You’ve never heard of a Kaypro II? It had a whopping 64K of memory and a green character display. It used something called “floppy disks” for all, all data storage, and it had an operating system called CP/M. It also had a word processing program called Perfect Writer which could only be used when you inserted the floppy disk containing this program into drive A – then you stored your documents on the floppy disk in drive B. Although not a rocket scientist, Mark managed to use this computer quite adeptly, including its spell checking capability which he sorely needed, as long as it consistently behaved as he expected.

And nothing much has changed today. He can use our Windows XP Home Edition PC, with the broadband Internet connection and the 1 GB of memory and the 225 GB storage just fine for useful work such as financial tracking in Quicken. He can back up the Quicken files onto a CD. He even Googles, now that the browser on his desktop has been set up with Google as his homepage.

(One time I set his browser homepage to point to a document that said HELLO MARK!!! instead of to the usual Google site. The next time he opened the browser it gave him quite a shock: "How do they know who I am??").

Mark can use this computer quite well to accomplish all sorts of useful tasks, as long as it consistently behaves exactly as he expects it to. And this is a key challenge for those of us in the software business--to make it so easy to use that it makes sense to Mark. The more I think about it, the more I think that may be rocket science after all.

At the Homeless Shelter

Last Monday I volunteered to help the The Colorado Agency for the Homeless by working with people at the Boulder Shelter for the Homeless to complete questionnaires. It is part of a HUD program to collect baseline information about different types of homelessness and how we might best fund housing and services that help people who are homeless to become self-sufficient. The last Colorado count was on August 28 and at that point there were 11,890 homeless people counted in the state.

I spoke with two women and three men, each quite different in their situations and needs. I encountered a range of emotions including anger, frustration, anxiety, exhaustion, and cheerful acceptance. One question in the form was about what services they needed but were unable to get, and that was interesting. Almost everybody agreed that they could get food and shelter if they needed it. Employment and transportation were a different matter, and housing was a big issue, especially for the single males who are a lower priority for many agencies than the families. Some of the challenges included serious physical issues such as cancer and asthma, and equally serious mental health issues including bipolar disorder.

My brother Paul had trouble with bipolar disorder and drugs all his life, but there were also good times. He was witty, loved to play his fiddle, loved to ride his bicycle, could be a great uncle to my kids at times, carving jack o’lanterns with them at Halloween.

Toward the end it got increasingly crazy though. The bipolar ups and downs and the constant drug use in combination were too much. He was homeless for a while before he died last year, although in the last months he had managed to get “Section 8” housing – an apartment with a balcony that actually had a view of the Flatirons. He had a job for a couple of days, but they said that he was “too slow.” The whole story is too complicated to tell here. I have had tendencies to feel guilty that I didn’t help him more, although truth be told I did everything in my power and energy to help him over many years. In talking to the people the other night at the Shelter I realized how very fortunate he had been to get the housing and the opportunity to change his unemployed situation. Nevertheless, he died of a methadone overdose last May.

When we went with the detective who was investigating his death to clear out his apartment, we found it occupied by a cadre of homeless young men and women who had no idea he had even died, but knew they had a place to sleep and had been taking advantage of it. The cop was seriously unamused to find them there. He called for backup and then lined them up for questioning along the balcony, all eight of them. At first it seemed sinister or scary, and I thought perhaps one of them was to blame for my brother’s death. But as I spoke with them it became clear that most of them were just lost people trying to get by, with their own family and drug and mental health issues, who had perhaps benefited from my brother’s hospitality in the past and had no idea what had happened. When they were told, I could see they were sad and upset.

So...why are people homeless? There is no one reason, no one to blame, but one thing is clear; there is no simple or consistent answer, and assumptions help nobody.

Mountain's Edge

When I finally realize my life depends on it, I choose Mountain’s Edge fitness club because it's two minutes away from my house, and I figure I will have no excuses for not working out. But as dumb luck has it, the ambience is great. The walls are painted a certain blue that makes me happy (the same color you see highlighting my blog site). When I climb the central staircase to take a BLTS (Body Lean Training System, weight training) or T.A.C. (Total Athletic Conditioning) class, then come back downstairs afterwards feeling like I’ve accomplished something, right above the stairs is a blue and white painting of the Flatirons* that always gives me a sense of well being.

There's energy in the air. I see all ages and types, from young, incredibly muscular, tattooed men to silver-haired seniors. I go to the 6 a.m. spinning class on Thursday morning, and find that the bikes face a huge west window overlooking the snowy Flatirons. As I spin in the class listening to “the kind of music KBCO plays--no 80's,” according to the teacher), I imagine riding right up the mountainside. Peggy, the kindly and humorous instructor, understands my awkwardness. She cheerfully helps me get seat and handlebars adjusted and my toes into the toe clips. During “Peggy’s Moment of Meditation” she suggests we think about a goal while spinning to the song she plays, and I get into that so much with my eyes closed that Peggy has to come back and check me out to make sure I'm all right.

I am not in good shape right now, so going to the club and doing the classes is a repeated exercise in humility. My goal is not to be extremely athletic, or even to lose weight. My goal is to retain as much strength and flexibility as possible and be able to walk and move freely as long as I live. I want to be a spry old lady.

Motivation is my biggest challenge now. My work schedule doesn’t easily let me work out during the day or in the evening. So it is either weekends or 6 a.m. classes for me. Wish me luck (or actually, wish me self-discipline)!

*If you don’t live in Boulder you probably don’t know what the Flatirons are. They are three foothill rock formations just west of Boulder, each flat and tilted, and they can look magnificent – never more so than when they are dusted with snow or glowing pink as they reflect the morning sunrise.

Writing Feels Good

I’ve always enjoyed Anna Quindlen’s writing because it has great heart and wisdom. Her recent article in Newsweek, “Write for Your Life,” struck a particular chord.

I have only recently started blogging, thinking that I didn’t have the time, or I didn’t have anything I wanted to say quite so publicly. My very private journaling had up until this point been perfectly satisfactory. But there is something that feels good about choosing a topic to share with others, and working to fine tune it so that it is reasonably well written, and even taking a picture perhaps to illustrate it. Anna Quindlen writes:

Wouldn't all of us love to have a journal, a memoir, a letter, from those we have loved and lost? Shouldn't all of us leave a bit of that behind?

The knowledge that you have left some small part of you behind, like a trail of pebbles marking your path, is appealing. Who hasn’t wished for just a few more pebbles from people we’ve loved who are gone forever?

Emily the Cat, or YACPB (Yet Another Cute Pet Blog)

Emily the cat is the 11-year-old surviving sister of Charlotte the cat--Charlotte of the mangled foot due to curiosity about an exercise bicycle in full spin. Emily was left behind when Charlotte died a couple of years ago, and her eccentricity has increased exponentially now that she is the last cat left.

Cats are not supposed to be needy or lonely. But Emily is. She sits expectantly by my side as I read the paper or work on the computer, awaiting the chance to climb up and drape herself over my right shoulder, purring all the while. She can get a little testy when I set her back down, and she’s not above a quick angry growl and baring of the teeth to make her feelings clear.

Emily the cat misses my children, who have thoughtlessly gone off to college and left her behind. They would let her sleep on or near their heads each night, purring loudly into their ears. I am not as liberal.

Every morning at precisely 9 a.m., my husband (who claims to want nothing to do with Emily the cat and assures me that there will never be another cat, ever) prepares a special treat for her in the kitchen. Although the treat no longer comes in cans but in plastic pouches, the sound of the can opener brings Emily running, certain it is treat time.

Emily cries. A lot. She cries to be let in, and cries to be let out. She cries to be allowed into the pantry where there are surely mice, although she has never produced one. She stands in the echoing spiral staircase well and lets out long, drawn out yowls. She cries at 4 a.m., certain that if she can only be freed into the darkness that hunting opportunities will abound.* She cries to be let back in at 4:03 a.m. having realized that it is 7 degrees Fahrenheit outside and snowing steadily.

If it takes awhile to rouse a human to open the door and let her back in on a cold, cold night, she will make staccato comments as she trots inside: “Rowr. Rowr-rowr-rowr-rowr-rowr.” Her message is clear. And my role is clear: to obey.

*I fear that she is more likely to end up the hunted rather than the huntress, since mountain lions, coyotes and foxes have all been spotted in our South Boulder neighborhood.

Strawberries in the Snow

One of my indulgences in the coldest days of winter is strawberries. We buy the clear plastic one-pound containers in grocery store, and I slice up the plump berries to provide the only sweetening I allow myself for my shredded wheat breakfast.

As I was slicing ‘em up this morning, I realized that one reason I like them is that they remind me of my father’s garden back in southern Indiana. My Dad was a master gardener. The son of a Professor of Botany, his own gardening was anything but academic. It was a heartfelt, sweat-laden work of love each summer.

Early in the spring, he would hire someone to plow the garden, and then use his rototiller to further prepare the ground. I am not talking here about a small plot. His garden was vast, with several rows each of the perennial asparagus, green onions, tomatoes, green peppers, eggplants, lettuce, rows of corn stalks, and of course the strawberry patch. Not to mention the gladiolus, snapdragons and chrysanthemums. He did not select certain ones of these each year to plant in his garden—he always had all of them because Dad never did anything half way. He also had some rows of persimmon trees at the end of the garden that would drop their fruit for us to collect and make into persimmon pudding in the fall.

Don’t tell anybody, but near the very edge of the woods there was a hidden patch of cannabis.

Dad loved the garden. He could be observed from the back of our deck after a long day at work, heading up to the garden to water, putter, plant, weed and contemplate. He suited up in gray work pants and a perspiration- and dirt-soaked white t-shirt, along with a bandanna tied Indian-style around his forehead to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes. On weekends it might well be a full day of gardening with my mother occasionally sending us up with iced tea or after 5 pm sometimes a Manhattan. If my father made his own Manhattans they would be in a large Hellman’s mayonnaise jar with a lid to avoid accidental spillage. At around 5:30 or 6:00 we would be sent up to give him the 60-minute warning that dinner would be served soon and he should come down to the house to shower and change.

Dad always kept a saltshaker up in the garden, because there is nothing in this world more delicious in the heat of a summer day than picking a ripe, warm tomato or green pepper, liberally salting it, and munching it on the spot. Those who came up to volunteer for weeding and other chores would often be offered this as their reward and well worth it.

Dad had a stone gnome attached to a tree that overlooked the garden with a somber yet bemused expression. We called it his garden gnome.

He kept a shotgun on the back deck sometimes, because all was not paradise in the garden up by the woods, and deer, rabbits, raccoons and other creatures felt a certain ownership for the delicious vegetables. Dad would shoot from the deck on occasion when encroachment was observed. Since I don’t remember ever seeing any dead bodies I would like to think he just scaring them.

One of his greatest pleasures was to take baskets of flowers and vegetables to his friends and neighbors. He also made a habit of delivering flowers to various nursing homes and hospitals. His great generosity at these times is a joy to recall. The warm strawberries from a summer day in his garden can never be duplicated, but at least I can buy a pound once in awhile in the cold of winter at the grocery store and remember.

Happiness

I just read an article my sister sent me on “seeking routes to a happier life.” The article talks about various techniques that have actually shown measurable promise in research.

The article mentions that researchers are finding your basic level of happiness can be improved with effort (rather than our all having to just live with whatever the default setting is). That is encouraging.

One of the simplest methods mentioned was to just go to sleep each night thinking about three good things that happened to you that day, and analyzing why they happened. Apparently people are getting good results immediately with this one. I had more of a Woody Allen reaction - vivid anxiety dreams about work (an important announcement is going to be made, I am late for the meeting, I have lost the information, I have gotten on the wrong shuttle bus to get to the building where the meeting is, etc. etc.). I also had an anxiety dream about my husband and his health. So far not so good but I am going to keep it up for awhile because I have a feeling it makes sense. If you focus more on the good things that happen to you, won’t you be more aware of them and won’t this affect your overall mood? I would think so.

Another method mentioned is to savor small pleasures in life, like a hot shower or a good cup of coffee. I know this one works for me if I can just stay in the moment long enough to be aware of the good feelings. Especially a hot shower in the morning can lift my spirits big-time.

A third method was practicing random acts of kindness, doing nice things for people. I know I have also felt a surge of well being that way.

A few good happiness quotations for the road:

“Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.” - Abraham Lincoln

“All I can say about life is, Oh God, enjoy it!” – Bob Newhart

"Keep a good heart. That's the most important thing in life. It's not how much money you make or what you can acquire. The art of it is to keep a good heart." - Joni Mitchell

“Many persons have a wrong idea of what constitutes true happiness. It is not attained through self-gratification but through fidelity to a worthy purpose.” – Helen Keller
“All sanity depends on this: that it should be a delight to feel heat strike the skin, a delight to stand upright, knowing the bones are moving easily under the flesh.” – Doris Lessing