Tag: writing

We all had a computer in school.

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Entrance of Spring Valley Elementary School with families and children outside

As children, from a certain age, we didn’t know how well off we were. Long before the advent of Tandy computers and 6” screens, we had portable devices of our own. They were called pencils.

Incredibly, I still have one from my childhood school. It’s light blue, with the words “San Francisco School System” proudly printed in white on the side. One might wonder how (or why) I’d have a pencil that is nearly 75 years old. However, anyone who knows me well will understand. Spring Valley Elementary School on Jackson Street in San Francisco handed out these pencils (free, I might add) to any student. Since I love new pencils, with the freshly sharpened smell, I probably asked for one every day. No one seemed to be concerned that I went through them at the speed of light.

Many years after I left Spring Valley, I was driving down Jackson Street and passed the school. I pulled over, parked, and went inside for the first time in decades. The first thing I noticed was that the school smelled exactly like it did when I was a student there. You had to spend years at the school to know what I mean. I wandered into what was my kindergarten class. It looked the same, with small tables and tiny chairs. In a few moments, a young teacher walked in and, thinking that I was someone’s grandparent, cheerfully asked if she could help me in any way.

I replied that I’d been a student in that very classroom as a child. She was thrilled. It was like I’d opened a door for her to peer into and to imagine what it must have been like “then.” She was so excited, she asked me if I’d like to go upstairs to the principal’s office to meet her. I declined the opportunity to meet the principal. However, I did walk upstairs, and as I rounded the corner, I saw the exact same white bench outside her office that was there when I was a student. I remembered it all too well.

You never forget where you were when you hear these.

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This was a Monday in 1958—a year that would quietly send a remarkable generation into the world. On this exact date, I was probably walking the halls of Jefferson High, one of countless kids learning to navigate a changing America without even realizing history was forming around us.

I was thinking about the lunch bell ringing or what my girlfriend, Diana, had in mind after school, but beneath those ordinary worries, something bigger was taking shape. We were the bridge between the postwar dream and the modern age, the ones who grew up with rotary phones and space shots, black-and-white TV and color revolutions in music, culture, and technology.

Often, someone would plan a party in their parents’ garage, and we’d look forward to a make-out party disguised as a social gathering, where we’d hear these songs over and over. Those garage gatherings were more than teenage mischief; they were where our generation learned to connect, push boundaries gently, and dream a little beyond the rules our parents handed down.

My personal favorite on this list was (and is) “Rebel Rouser” — man, that guy could play his Twangy Guitar. That sound captured exactly what made kids born in 1958 distinctive: we were restless but hopeful, respectful yet quietly rebellious, shaped by our parents’ sacrifices but determined to write our own story.

Ah, memories — I often hear that song on Spotify — who knew? And that’s part of why our experiences still matter: our small moments, like a song spinning in a garage or echoing now through a streaming app, link the past to the present and remind us that the world we all live in was, in no small part, built on the lives, risks, and dreams of the children of 1958.

My Mom, gardenias, and me.

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Growing up in San Francisco was wonderful. There was always something to do and see, but what I remember most is the delight my Mom brought to those small adventures. One of my favorite things was going downtown with her. The cable car stopped around the corner from our flat, and we rode it to the end of the line, Powell and Market Streets. Across Market Street stood the Emporium, a huge department store my Mom loved. I loved watching her take it all in—the familiar streets, the busy store, the simple pleasure of being out together.

On nearly every visit, we saw an older man with a green pushcart in front of the Emporium’s main entrance, selling flowers—especially gardenias. My Mom always noticed them, and I was fascinated by the flowers too. The gardenias were beautiful, fragrant, and wrapped in bright green around the stem, with a pin to attach the flower to your date. Each time we passed the cart, I would hound my Mom for change so I could buy one for her. I can still picture the happiness on her face when she received it, as though that little flower had made the whole outing even more special.

How gallant of me, asking my Mom for money to give her a flower she had actually paid for herself. I don’t remember whether the gardenias cost a dime or a quarter, but they were top-notch, and she always admired them. She would thank me with such genuine pleasure that I felt I had given her something enormous. Those moments stay with me: her smile, her warmth, and the quiet joy she found in being remembered. The gardenia in the image here is from a plant I’ve nurtured at home, and caring for it brings those days back to me. I loved our time together, and I loved seeing how happy she was. Thanks, Mom, for everything.

Memories of the best dog, ever.

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Not long after moving to Bangkok, Thailand, we got a small dog from a work colleague. She had an uncertain background, but grew into a 50+-pound dog who had 8 puppies under our bed. Our friends named her Shaytoon, meaning something in another language, and we decided to keep that name.

She quickly became an amazing family companion. When our youngest daughter was born, she watched over her protectively. When a visitor leaned down to touch my daughter’s hair, Shaytoon moved closer and rested her open jaw against the visitor’s arm. She didn’t bite, but clearly showed she was there to protect our daughter.

In another memorable incident, a grocery delivery boy teased her during his deliveries to our house. One day, he stood by the front door and started mocking her. To everyone’s surprise, Shaytoon ran at the screen door and burst through it, chasing after the boy. He ran away quickly, and when he returned the next day, he made sure not to disturb our dog.

A few years later, we moved to Hong Kong, where strict animal quarantine laws required us to keep her in a shelter for 180 days. We visited her regularly, but it was a long separation for everyone. Finally, she came home with us, showing a new tattoo in her ear as proof of her good health.

Fast forward to our return to San Francisco. Shaytoon joined us and quickly adapted to life as a City Dog, enjoying rides and walks everywhere. From picnics at Stinson Beach to runs on the Marina Green, we were always together. I’m sure she saw herself as just another eager member of our family.

Years passed, and like many dogs, she got sick, had hearing loss, and trouble moving. This is a tough time for any family, and we faced the hard choice of putting her to sleep. One day, while our daughters were at school and my wife was out, I took Shaytoon on her last ride in our Volvo, with the sunroof open and her head out of the window. We went to the Marina Green for one last walk before heading to the Vet nearby. It was time, and I was the only one who could do this. It still hurts to remember that day.

As I took her into the doctor’s office, I hugged her and nuzzled her soft blond fur, something I had done many times. I took off her collar and her 1978 San Francisco dog license before she was taken inside; in moments, she was gone. I drove home heartbroken, realizing we would never be together again. I’ve kept the license tag all these years (it’s the image in this posting.) She was a cherished family member, and I’m grateful for this reminder of our time together. Thanks for everything, Shaytoon.

I know you’re having a lovely time in dog Heaven.

Stuff changes over time.

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When I was a kid in San Francisco, we got through life without being concerned with the things that are around today. Now, every day I read about people’s current concerns that were unheard of when I was growing up. I didn’t know a single person then who was a vegan, lactose-intolerant, concerned about GMO issues, or allergic to gluten products.

We weren’t concerned with bottled water (or the bottles). At home, we had tap water in the kitchen and bathroom, and best of all, we drank from a hose. It all seemed fine to me. There were plenty of drinking fountains at school and in public places, and not a single person I knew died from contaminated water. Or, by the way, ever had their “eye put out” by a pencil? No one had a car seat; seat belts were for future airplanes. Cars had metal bumpers that did a superb job of protecting them. They actually protected passengers and prevented significant damage to the vehicle. I recall one car (I think it was a Buick) that had huge, torpedo-shaped, pointed bumpers. Now that was classy.

My mom shopped nearly every day, as did my grandmother. Like it or not, we ate everything served; if you didn’t like it, too bad. We’d sit there until the offending item was gone. While my mom’s cooking wasn’t restaurant-quality, it included fresh vegetables long before boutique Fresh Market stores emerged. Our corner grocery store was the equivalent of a modern-day Kroger. It was about half a block from our house, and my mom dispatched me regularly for whatever we needed. My favorite thing to watch was a gas flame resembling a large Bunsen Burner. It was used to singe pin feathers off the skin of fresh chickens. We had never heard of packaged chicken.

We used to have this amazing social media platform—imagine a 4-party telephone line! It was just wonderful; four families sharing one phone line, each with their own distinct ring. It’s funny to think that everyone was listening in on each other sometimes. That was like instant social media, way before the 5G speeds people are eager for today. I could go on and on about thoughts like this. I know many others have similar childhood memories, and it warms my heart to see how small things can create such meaningful connections. To everyone who has supported me along the way, I truly appreciate you!

We all had a computer in school.

~ globalwhiz@protonmail.com ~ Leave a comment
Entrance of Spring Valley Elementary School with families and children outside

As children, from a certain age, we didn’t know how well off we were. Long before the advent of Tandy computers and 6” screens, we had portable devices of our own. They were called pencils.

Incredibly, I still have one from my childhood school. It’s light blue, with the words “San Francisco School System” proudly printed in white on the side. One might wonder how (or why) I’d have a pencil that is nearly 75 years old. However, anyone who knows me well will understand. Spring Valley Elementary School on Jackson Street in San Francisco handed out these pencils (free, I might add) to any student. Since I love new pencils, with the freshly sharpened smell, I probably asked for one every day. No one seemed to be concerned that I went through them at the speed of light.

Many years after I left Spring Valley, I was driving down Jackson Street and passed the school. I pulled over, parked, and went inside for the first time in decades. The first thing I noticed was that the school smelled exactly like it did when I was a student there. You had to spend years at the school to know what I mean. I wandered into what was my kindergarten class. It looked the same, with small tables and tiny chairs. In a few moments, a young teacher walked in and, thinking that I was someone’s grandparent, cheerfully asked if she could help me in any way.

I replied that I’d been a student in that very classroom as a child. She was thrilled. It was like I’d opened a door for her to peer into and to imagine what it must have been like “then.” She was so excited, she asked me if I’d like to go upstairs to the principal’s office to meet her. I declined the opportunity to meet the principal. However, I did walk upstairs, and as I rounded the corner, I saw the exact same white bench outside her office that was there when I was a student. I remembered it all too well.

Meet my magical Aura digital photo frame.

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One of my daughters gave me a new digital photo frame. I absolutely love it. It displays around 17,500 photos from around the world. It updates automatically, so I always have the latest memories at a glance. My frame sits on a desk near my workspace, making it easy to enjoy the images without moving. It’s like having a continuous, colorful story of my life unfolding 24/7.

The collection includes people, places, flowers, sunshine, beaches, celebrations, and even more meaningful moments, such as funerals, snow, cathedrals, street signs, and reminders that our memories are just seconds away. Watching the images appear and then fade into the next random one is simply magical. Since I’ve taken nearly every single photo, I can instantly recall where each one was taken and what was happening at that moment. What an excellent way to travel without leaving home.

My $100 Lesson in Not Looking Like a Tourist.

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Crowded taxi queue with many passengers lining up at Málaga Airport

The number one rule in travel is not to look like a tourist. Every self-assured traveler like myself wants to hit the ground in a new place looking like a lifelong resident of the very same city and be an expert in their local scene. This is an impressive goal, but it doesn’t always work out that way. Using taxis overseas is a lesson in small business management. Each person plays a different role; the driver, of course, and you as a passenger. They want to charge as much as possible for the limited time you’ll be in their cab, and I want to appear nonchalant and informed about the ride and costs.

Some time ago, I went to the Costa del Sol in Spain. The arrival airport was Malaga, Spain, and we were to make our own way to the conference. I was ok with that and headed to the taxi stand at the airport. I looked around and didn’t see anyone from our group, and I presumed they’d all taken taxis to the hotel in the Costa del Sol. I flagged down a cab and threw my stuff into the trunk. In my most knowledgeable travel voice, I sat back and announced I wanted to go from Malaga to the Costa del Sol. The driver was suddenly beside himself. Without another word, he blasted out of the airport, and we began a really, really long ride to the hotel.

Being the informed traveler that I am, I didn’t say anything. I was watching his taxi meter climb like a blood pressure test and wondering where in the heck I was? Fast forward, literally. After many, many miles, he pulled into the hotel. He was thrilled to present me with a taxi fare bill of some $100+- the cost of our journey. I was stupefied. However, I didn’t ask about the trip cost beforehand or inquire at the airport about alternative transfer services, which nearly all other delegates to the trip took advantage of. So, the moral of this story is don’t be a know-it-all. Especially when you don’t really know anything about the new country anyway.

The Postal Service needs help, now.

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Two USPS mail carriers delivering mail on a tree-lined suburban street

Our United States Postal Service is in a jam, and we all need to help them.

I recently read (and should have remembered) that Benjamin Franklin was our first Postmaster; he was an innovator who revived the then-Colonial Postal Service to increase efficiency and profitability. We need you, Ben, right now.

Nearly every resident of the United States is involved with the USPS and with their carriers and station staff. People in small towns, large metro areas, every state, and U.S. territories depend on them. Military and government personnel around the world depend on the USPS to help move their mail. We all need their services.

The USPS and its precursor, the United States Post Office, were essential to my family and me. My dad worked for the Post Office for more than 40 years; he had many assignments and spent most of his time in their Parcel Post unit. Along with many other changes, they don’t have Parcel Post carriers, and they don’t even call it the Post Office.

I’ve been a life-long user of “real mail.” My respect for the USPS remains solid. Nearly everyone I know in business, family, and social circles is aware of (and has received) real mail from me. I prefer handwritten notes and actual postage stamps; each envelope I drop into a USPS mailbox is a personal message from me to another person.

Today, I read an article about the USPS financial dilemma: people using 1st-Class mail is way down, which creates a huge revenue problem for the organization. In my view, now, more than ever, people need to be in touch with family and friends. Buying and using a postage stamp to send a greeting is a super investment in our USPS. Just imagine this: if 1% of the Nation’s population started buying and using stamps to aid communications, the USPS might be out of its downward spiral. I’ll send a few notes out today, so count me in. I’m happy to help.

Video meetings are not for me.

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Display of historical office technology including typewriters, early computers, phones, laptops, tablets, and smartphones.

I have worked from a virtual office (home-based) for many years, so the”work from home” experience isn’t new to me. When I started working from a virtual location, companies were very suspicious; all they could think about was how they’d ensure I was working a full day. They’d also fret over issues like home safety, equipment, and the like.

Now, with zillions of folks working from home (AI, home office or not), all they need is a laptop, a strong internet connection, and a video chat app. Even with this advanced technology, video chatters spend an inordinate amount of time fussing and fiddling with connections, audio, video, and who can’t sign in. Not long ago, I was on a call with people in 3 cities in the US and 2 cities in France (our US team didn’t speak a word of French). We didn’t accomplish a single thing on that call.

Now, companies have seen the light, and working from home (or a virtual office, for purists) will be here to stay for years to come. I can tell you that over the years, I’ve worked more prolonged, more productive hours from my home office than from any office I had in New York City. It’s laughable now when I think of standing on the local train platform with an army of fellow commuters; everyone had their place to stand before boarding and a particular seat to sit in on the train. It was all controlled, and woe be it to a newcomer who sat in someone’s accustomed seat going into or out of Grand Central. Day after day, we all saw each other. What an incredible waste of time.

In my home office, I’ve always had everything anyone would need to work efficiently. Early on, I didn’t have a computer or a laptop. However, the three Kings of Communication were my fax machine, HP printer, and my trusty IBM typewriter. The typewriter probably weighed at least 35 pounds and took up 50% of my available workspace (I am using the same desk right now). The printer was also gigantic, heavy, and expensive (around $3000) as I recall.

The fax machine was my great leap forward, complete with thermal paper and all. I bought this gem from Staples for the astronomical price of $1400. Hard to believe. I was once negotiating for a position based in Hong Kong; one day, I returned home to a fax message about 10 feet long. Such progress. I’ll hold off on video calls for as long as I can, since Zoom is here to stay; I guess I’ll have to look for a new fax machine to stay competitive.