The Tinfoil Hat

Sometimes I wonder if those people who go around wearing tinfoil hats for protection from some unknown, mysterious "them" might not have something.

I have no doubt whatsoever that my computer is fully aware of both my inadequacies and my frustration level, and that it takes deliberate advantage of them whenever possible. You may see this as paranoia. I see it as irrefutable fact. What other possible explanation can there be for this morning's incident? To wit:

To the left of my computer screen I have what is known, for reasons beyond my understanding, as "the Dock" on which are put "icons" of those programs most frequently used. I have 16 of these little icons at the moment. The one I most frequently use is a tiny file folder titled "Documents," through which I access all my writing projects. This morning, as I was trying to "open" it (I love these quaint technological terms), it vanished. Disappeared. One instant it was there and the next, when I put the cursor (where that name came from is also a total mystery) over the little folder icon and left-clicked (I'm on a roll with computer terminology!) to "open" it, as I do no fewer than 50 times a day, the little folder disappeared. Why it disappeared, how it disappeared, or where it went when it disappeared are, like probably the majority of other things in my life, not for the likes o' me to know.

This same thing has happened before, and when it did it this time, my immediate reaction was the same as it has been every other time something happens for absolutely no discernible reason: I completely come apart at the seams, panic, blubber, curse myself, the computer, and the fates, and then develop a total mind-freeze so complete it prevents me from remembering my own name.

Whenever I have a computer problem I cannot handle (which is to say every time I have a computer problem) my first thought is to call my friend Gary who, with the patience of a saint, drops whatever he's doing and comes over to extricate me from whatever mess I've gotten into. Inevitably, he will resolve the problem with one tap of his index finger on one key.

When some semblance of normal functioning returned in this morning's crisis, I tried with all my might to remember what had been done the last fifteen times to put the little folder back in its place on the "Dock." And I remembered! All I need do is go to "File" and then "Open" and then...well, a whole lot of other things which will eventually bring up, somewhere and somehow, the little Document icon. Then, all I had to do was click on it, hold down the cursor key, and "drag" it over to the Dock! Which is exactly what I proceeded to do. And the instant I took my finger off the cursor key, the file icon disappeared again.

Thinking there was the most remote of chances that I might possibly have done something wrong (I know, hard to imagine, but...), I did the "File"/"Open"/Whatever routine again. Found the folder icon. Placed the cursor on it, held the key down and dragged it to the Dock. Held it there to be sure it wasn't going away. Released my finger and it instantly disappeared again. Tried it a third time. Same result.

Applying my lifelong principle of "If at first you don't succeed, give up," I gave in to desperation and called Gary. (There has to be a special place in heaven for long-suffering best friends.) He dropped what he was doing and came over, sat down at the computer, went to "File"/"Open"/Whatever. Placed the cursor on the Document folder, held the key down, and dragged it to the Dock. Released his finger and there the Document folder icon stayed. Well, of course it did! He did it, not me.

Listening patiently to my pathetic insistence that what he did was exactly, exactly what I had done, he struggled not to show that he didn't believe me for an instant. Getting up from the computer without a word, he left.

I stared at the computer. It stared back. I was sure I could hear it snickering.

I am now going into the kitchen to make myself a tinfoil hat.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. In the meantime, you're invited to visit my recently-revised website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@gmail.com. I'd love to hear from you.

Ursula's World

I've long ago given up wondering what triggers my thoughts and memories, but for some reason I found myself thinking of my friend Ursula. I'd never in my life met anyone like her before, nor have I since. And doubt I ever shall again.

I met Ursula while I was living in Northern Wisconsin. She was well-known in the area as being an eccentric rock of a woman who, in her 70s when I met her, lived alone on a 20-acre farm on which she raised sheep. She also sheared them and spun their wool into yarn, from which she made mittens, scarves, and various other items. She had electricity but no running water and no toilet.

I knew Ursula was Jewish before I met her…there were very few Jews in the area, most of the residents being either Finnish (to work the forests) or Italian (to work the mines).

I worked part time at a supermarket, which is where I first met her. Knowing she was Jewish, I wished her a happy Rosh Hashanah during the holiday, and she took a liking to me, and gradually I learned her story.

She did not willingly talk of her past, and it was only in small bits and pieces, over time, that I learned some of her story. She was born in Germany of a Jewish mother and a non-Jewish father, and she had one older brother whom she adored. When the Nazis came to power, she and her family were shipped off to a concentration camp for "half-breeds." Though spared the gas chamber, their life in the camps was incomprehensible to those not experiencing it.

At some point during or immediately after the war, her beloved brother was beaten to death by a group of Nazi thugs.

On February 13, 1945, she was on a prison train which was stopped at the outskirts of Dresden as the infamous firebombing of the city began. Over 100,000 people died in the firestorms. Ursula and others on the train were forced to go through the destroyed city retrieving bodies.

When her camp was liberated at the end of the war, her mother and father went out for a walk, leaving the confines of the camp for the first time. Her father was shot and killed while on that walk…I was never sure how, why, or by whom, but it didn’t matter. Murder is murder.

Somehow finding her way to the U.S.--again, I have no details--Ursula married a Serb emigre and had two daughters. The marriage was a disaster, and they were divorced after Ursula moved to Chicago. She managed to buy a small house and raise her daughters. During the riots of the 1968 Democratic Party convention in Chicago, Ursula was convinced that what had happened in Germany in the 1930s was happening in America. She sold her house and moved to Northern Wisconsin, where she bought her farm. She became estranged from her daughters, who moved away as soon as they could.

I would visit her frequently, and she would call me to ask to pick up a few things from the store for her. She had a large garden, and always kept me supplied with vegetables in season. She mowed her own lawn, using a scythe and a push lawnmower.

She, I, and a gay mutual friend (one of only about 10 gays in a 100 mile radius) built a 30 x 60 foot barn for her sheep, largely out of materials salvaged from the various collapsed buildings around her property. She was fiercely, fiercely independent and resourceful.

She was also literally paranoid in her fear of any form of authority figure. When the government had installed an "ELF" defense tracking system throughout northern Wisconsin, every low-flying plane or passing helicopter became an omen of danger.

We talked every day on the phone, and she would always say "We have to watch out for one another: you never know what might happen."

And then one day I tried to call her. That there was no answer wasn’t surprising: she was always out of the house tending to chores. But when after five or six calls with no response, I began to get concerned. She usually told me when she was planning to go somewhere, and she’d mentioned nothing. Finally, after about the eighth call, I was truly concerned. For some reason, I was unable to drive over (it was about a 20 minute drive) to check on her, and so I called the Sheriff’s office and asked that if they had a car in the area, they might stop and check to be sure she was okay.

I heard nothing further, and later that evening, I called again. Ursula answered the phone. I asked what had happened, and she said she had just been outside working. She then said: "You had no right to call the police. I do not want to talk to you anymore." And she hung up, and that, despite my efforts to explain that I only called the police because I was concerned for her, was, except for a few cursory accidental meetings at the store during which she was painfully uncomfortable, the end of our friendship.

I was truly sorry to lose her as a friend, but I realize that in her eyes, I had done the unforgivable: I had called her to the attention of the authorities.

I heard Ursula died last year. Though I was no longer her friend, she was still mine. I miss her.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@gmail.com.