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"Anyone
home?" My neighbor Nancy's yellow inner tube enters the house
before she does. She holds up her bottle of iced tea in silent
response to my offer of a cool drink. No one in 80-degree California
desert weather would be without iced tea. Except for me. I still
have my fourth cup of coffee in hand, waiting to burn my tongue
the way the sidewalk outside does bare feet.
"I'm off to the
pool to do my exercises," Nancy says. "But before I go, do I have
any messages?"
I smile apologetically.
"None of the grandkids have written."
Nancy stands
there, face puckered in an oddly stoic expression. "None of them?
Didn't they get my e-mails?"
"There's no way
to tell."
"They did before.
They wrote me back."
I nod. "They're
probably just busy." Nancy has at least seven grandchildren scattered
across North America. One of the girls is reportedly backpacking
in Europe right now. The rest of them are all in college.
She shakes her
head slowly. "So much for 'If you had e-mail, we'd write you more
often.'"
"Do you want
to send them anything?"
"Nah. I have
to go do my exercises." Nancy maneuvers around with the inner tube.
She pats me on the shoulder. "Thanks anyway."
"I'll come get
you if there's anything in my mailbox," I say before I head back
to my home office. Sitting down at my keyboard, I ignore the sun
shining off the palm trees and once again check Outlook Express.
E-mail from my mother. Offers from Amazon.com. The e-mail newsletters
I tell myself I don't have time to read.
Nothing from
Nancy's grandchildren. I call up their addresses, cut and paste
them into the TO line, then proceed to type: "Dear Kids, Your grandmother
really wants to hear from you. She would be so tickled if you would
write. Stay in school, have fun in Europe, nurse that ankle (whichever
one of you is playing football), and keep warm! Love ya, Kristin."
I click Send,
and get back to whatever I was doing before Nancy's visit. Hours
later, I'm still checking my e-mail for Nancy, eager to tell her
the new most-anticipated three words: "You've Got Mail!" I feel
like the old switchboard operator in a small town, listening to
everyone's business. An odd image, that, considering the vast computing
power of the Internet.
Or maybe not.
After all, hackers can get into your AOL or Microsoft Outlook Inbox
and read all about your last fight with your mother, your latest
campaign finance blunders (you know who you are), that you hate
your boss, or your wild fantasies about Harrison Ford. Heck, your
company and the government can read the same things, and I guarantee
you they'll have less fun than the hackers.
Voyeurism: the
final frontier. I could make a case for The Need for Connectedness
in this Information Society. After all, E.M. Forster put it best:
"Only connect." And e-mail is allowing us to reach people we wouldn't
spend 33 cents, or a nickel a minute for the latest long distance
plan, to talk to. It's easy, it's convenient, and as my neighbor
says, "It's fun!" It allows us to feel the thrill of anticipation
we used to feel when the mail carrier arrived. But that was before
we became adults. The anticipation dulls when you know the mail
will bring the electric bill, a solicitation for the Policeman's
Ball, or a flyer titled "Have You Seen Me? Missing Children." All
important, but not satisfying.
Think of writing
a letter in ancient times, the thought in the act of writing. We
still enjoy the passionate love letters of Napoleon and Josephine,
Abelard and Heloise. It is a glimpse into someone's life we never
knew.
There is something
appealing about connecting this woman, who volunteers for the Red
Cross and hesitates to buy a computer, with her grandkids. I am
not just the letter-writer or the secretary. I am part of the connection.
Days later, still
no word from the kids. I write them another letter: "Dear Kids,
Your grandmother needs you! If you're worrying about her bothering
me, don't. Please write to her. Only a few minutes of your time
and I won't tell your parents all the things she's told me, things
she would never tell your folks. What can I say, she's an incredible
woman."
I'm not bluffing.
I know how to find their parents. And I think they know I know.
The next day, I get an answer from one of the girls: "Dear Kristin,
How many things have you done that you didn't want your parents
to know about?" (More than she has.) "Get on with your life and
let us get on with ours. Some of us have midterms. I don't mean
to sound rude. I love my grandmother. Sometimes I just get…busy.
Tell her I'll call her."
I'll call. And
that reminds me: When was the last time I called someone instead
of just writing an e-mail? Or actually sent a card? In my memories
box are two dozen typewritten letters, liberally splashed with White-Out
and full of mistakes, many crossed out with X's. Several of these
are writing critiques. The writer, my master's thesis final project
advisor Ben Masselink -- former Marine, novelist, screenwriter,
columnist and teacher -- died in January. If my house caught on
fire and I had to save one item, it wouldn't be my Gateway laptop.
It would be those letters, as well as every card I've ever received.
Some of them are from people I rarely see. And yes, all the printed
e-mails I saved.
E-mail is
great, e-mail is wonderful. But it's what's behind e-mail that
makes it great.
Nancy knocks
on the door with her inner tube. "Anyone home?"
I smile and
say, "You've got mail."
Copyright
© 2000 Kristin Johnson. All Rights Reserved
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