The Changing World of Communication

Across the Fence #237

Are you old enough to remember crank wall phones and party lines? Do you remember life without TV? How about life before computers and the Internet?

If you answered yes to those questions, welcome to my world. You and I have witnessed a lot of changes in our lifetime, and it's only just begun. I read that much of the technology college freshmen learn today will be obsolete by the time they graduate. That's how fast technology is changing. It's a scary thought, especially for older people. But, we have two choices... try to ignore it and hope it goes away, or jump in with both feet and enjoy the ride, even if it is a bit wild and intimidating for many of us.

All this came to the forefront when I attended the Wisconsin State Telecommunications Association's convention. Several of the speakers addresses the changing face of communications. It was an eye-opener for me.

One speaker showed us the changing habits within each age group, starting with the Baby Boomers (1946-1964), Then Generations X (1965-1979), Y (1980-2001), and Z (2002-). As I looked at the data, I realized I was off the chart, and not even relevant to the marketing approaches of many companies. I was born in 1944, which makes me a World War II baby... a member of the Silent Generation. I'm off the radar and don't exist in the minds of young marketing execs. It may be a changing world, but I've got news for them, don't count us old buggers out. As the song from Spamalot says, "I'm not dead yet!"

Lets take a look at some of the items used to communicate with other people in the world today. These things weren't even in people's vocabulary when us war babies were born.

Cell phone, iPhone, iPod, Blackberry, Microsoft, MAC, Blog, Podcast, Google, eBay, YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, Flickr, SecondLife, web page, email, text messages, teleconference, and the list goes on and on.

Television viewing has also changed. We got our first TV when I was around ten years of age. The picture was black and white and was often like watching a program through a snowstorm. We only had one station out of La Crosse at first. Later we were able to receive Rochester if the atmospheric conditions were all in alignment with the moon and stars, and someone climbed up a ladder to the roof and manually rotated the antenna. Oh, one more thing. You had to get up and turn a knob on the TV to change the channel. All those inconveniences, but we thought it was great.

Now we get 150 channels in color, some in high definition. No more watching it through the snow, and there's even a remote control to do your channel surfing. You never have to get up from your recliner to change channels or climb up the ladder to the roof and move the antenna for better reception. Oh, I almost forgot to mention, we used to deal with vertical and horizontal hold problems too in the good old days. When was the last time you had to deal with that?

All those improvements in TV reception, and yet we bitch and complain if we get some temporary blocking of the picture for a few seconds. We've really been spoiled by modern technology.

The younger generations have completely embraced the fast-changing technology in the communications world. But some of the things I learned from the presentations at the convention concern me. Are those young people in danger of losing the ability to communicate face to face? Are some of them even losing touch with reality? If you're sending and receiving over 10,000 text messages a month, and watching TV "reality" shows, how much time is left for living and experiencing life around you?

A lot of time is also spent on Facebook and other sites to show and tell what you are doing and thinking. A word of warning; be careful what you post on any site. Anyone can Google your name and come up with photos and information about you and what you've written, including potential employers.

It's a very different world we live in now, compared to the one I came kicking and screaming into. We've come a long way from the old party line when neighbors could "rubberneck" and find out what you were doing. Now through the Internet, the whole world can "listen in" on your conversations and find out what you're up to. Even this column ends up on newspaper websites where anyone with a computer and an Internet connection, anywhere in the world, can access and read them. I have relatives and friends in Norway who read the column online each week. Is it any wonder that many newspapers are losing subscribers when people can read a newspaper online for free. That mode of communication has also changed.

I wonder what changes the children of today will experience? We can't even imagine how they'll be communicating. It's an exciting world, full of changes. I hope I can be around long enough to report some of those changes to you!

Water, the Titanic, and Questions

Across the Fence #236

As a young boy, I went along on many fishing trips to the Mississippi River with my father. He'd rent a flat-bottomed, wooden boat from the Blask Brothers near Genoa, put his small motor on it, and we'd chug out into the channel for a day of fishing. I loved the sound of the waves slapping against the boat and feel the spray of the water against my face. It must have been that old Viking blood in my veins, passed down from long ago, that made me love the boating experience.

My great grandfather, Jonas Østrem, was a fisherman in Norway before he left for America. My grandmother, Inga Sherpe, would tell us stories of him leaving the farm in the mountains above Moi, Norway, and sailing down the lake and fjords to get out to the sea at Flekkifjord. One time they had been caught in a thick fog for many days. They had given up hope of ever getting back to Norway, when the fog lifted and they were in sight of the coast.

Maybe some of those "water genes" from my ancestors were passed down to me. I accompanied my father and his fishing friends on several trips to Canada and Hayward, Wisconsin. Those were fun times and even when the water got very rough and the waves rock and rolled the boat around, I felt a sense of adventure, not fear. There's something special about taking the best that nature can throw at you and coming out on top.

I also spent three weeks on a troop ship in the Pacific Ocean on the way to Vietnam. I can't say I enjoyed the experience, but I did enjoy being on the ship and watching the ocean roll by. Even when we endured several days in a very bad storm, I found the experience to be an exciting adventure instead of frightening. I guess I should have realized that bad things can happen to ships and people in storms. It must have been that old Viking blood again!

All those experiences went through my mind this week when I toured the Titanic exhibit at the Milwaukee Museum. I was at a convention in Lake Geneva and several of us non-golfers took the Titanic experience while the golfers chased their ball around the course,

I love history, and seeing the artifacts that had been recovered from the ship that lay almost two-and-a-half miles down on the bottom of the ocean, was very interesting to me. We listened to the story of the Titanic on an audio device we picked up at the beginning of the tour. We were also given a card with the name and history of a passenger. I was Reverend John Harper from England, on my way to Chicago to begin a series of revival meetings at the Moody Church. They told us that we would find out our fate at the end of the exhibit tour.

The Titanic was an example of a very expensive and luxurious ship, but in order to save some money they had gone with some cheaper, and not as strong, rivets. Those rivets proved to be the undoing of the Titanic when they were peeled away by the iceberg, allowing a gash to open and start flooding the ship. Another mistake was the shortage of lifeboats. They had added only the number of boats that were required by law, not the amount needed to hold all the passengers who were aboard. They thought the ship was unsinkable and those lifeboats would never be needed,

In hindsight, those mistakes cost the loss of the ship and many lives that should never have been lost. Some things never change. It seems that companies still try to cut corners to save money and provide only up to what the law requires, not what they know would provide a safer item, whether that's a vehicle, ship, plane, or building. The low bid usually gets the contract.

One part of the story that stands out for me is who lived and who died. Once people began to realize the ship was going to sink it became a life and death situation for everyone aboard. How do you pick who lives and who dies? I couldn't help but wonder how I would have reacted in that situation. Would I have been one of the men who tried to crowd on ahead of the women and children? I hope not. How would a person live with himself knowing he had taken that route in order to live?

The whole exhibit brought many of those questions to light for me. What would I have done if our troop ship had broken apart in the storm? At least in our case, there were no women and children on board, just a bunch of guys. But what if it had come down to only one lifeboat left and hundreds of us still on board? Would I have been willing to go down with the ship so others could live? That's a tough question.

When we came to the end of the exhibit, there was a list of all those who had survived and all who had drowned. I went down with the ship. At least in the "Titanic World" I had sacrificed my life so others could live. But the question still remains, what would have happened in my "Real World?"

From the Sixties To the Sixties

Across the Fence #235

We hear people brag that they can go from zero to sixty in five seconds. That's putting the pedal to the metal,  burning rubber, and going down the road like you were shot out of a cannon. Big deal. That's nothing!

My friend, Tom Deits, from Madison said it best. On the occasion of me reaching the "Age of Medicare," he said, "Who'd have thought one day we'd wake up. and living in the sixties would mean we are living in our sixties?" Boy is he right. We went from the Age of Aquarius to the Age of Medicare in the blink of an eye. Now that's fast!

Tom and I came of age in the 1960's, a defining, tumultuous decade in America and also in our lives. The sixties was an interesting time for Tom and me, and everyone who lived through it. It's surprising that any of us made it into our sixties.

The events of that decade be gan quietly enough for me, as I endured the traumas and joys of high school life. Most of those experiences are nothing to write home about. I began dating, graduated from high school, attended college, lived away from home for the first time, learned how to smoke and drink, drove milk truck, attended art school, got drafted, got engaged, became an army medic, took part in the Vietnam War, saved some lives, took some lives, got married, graduated from art school, and became a commercial artist working for a living as the decade came to a close. For me, as well as most people of my generation, the sixties was one heck of a decade! Certain events really stand out.

On November 22, 1963, I was cleaning the barn when I heard on the radio that President Kennedy had been shot and killed. The country came to a standstill until after the funeral.

In the fall of '64 I headed back to Madison to study Commercial Art. The war in Vietnam was in the news, but it still didn't concern me and I paid little attention. My cousin Sandy's husband, Lou, was sent to Vietnam with the 1st Cav during the fall of '65. My parents put a large map of Vietnam on their living room wall to keep track of where he was. Little did they know at the time, it would remain on the wall for the rest of the decade as I took my turn, and then my brother, David,

October of '65, I received my greetings from the President of the United States to report for induction into the armed forces. My world quickly fell apart and completely changed from the one I had expected when the year began.

In July of 1966, I left for Vietnam on a troop ship. The old Howard died at some point during that year and a new, older version emerged from the ashes.

July 4, 1967, I returned from Vietnam, slightly disoriented, fifty pounds lighter, but still in one piece.

Eighteen days after returning home, Linda and I were married. My body was home and present, but my mind was missing in action, still half a world away.

The hippie culture of the '60 was flourishing. Everyone was getting high, making love, and dropping out. I felt very old, like an outsider who didn't belong among the young students I found myself surrounded by, who were only a couple years younger than me. The war was on the nightly news. Both the war in Vietnam and the war at home in the streets. I just wanted to forget about the whole sorry mess and not be reminded of it every day.

The summer of '68, my brother, David, was drafted. When he left for Vietnam, I never expected to see him alive again. There was no way both of us were getting out of Vietnam alive. 

In '68 Martin Luther King was shot and killed. Bobby Kennedy was shot and killed. Rioting Blacks burned Watts to the ground. Madison streets became a war zone, as protesters battled the police and National Guard. America was in chaos and it all seemed to stem from the unpopularity of the war. My war.

While the country was in chaos, three men headed for the moon in December, 1968, aboard Apollo 8. On Christmas day they circled the moon and could see no borders between countries or wars being fought on earth. They saw only a peaceful, beautiful planet floating in the blackness of space.

July 21, 1969, Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon as I watched on television one evening.

In August of '69, 500,000 flower children of the sixties descended on Woodstock, New York for a love fest. I wasn't among them.

Late December of '69, my brother also returned—alive—from the war. We had both made it home and would live to see the dawn of another decade. The sixties ended on a happy note for us.

Now as I look back on the sixties, I see them as a time when I lost my youth and innocence and never found them again. The sixties did that to people. Now I'm living in the sixties again, only this time it's the Age of Medicare. As Tom and I look back, and ahead, we can't help but wonder, maybe this is the dawning of a new Age of Aquarius for us?

Lets Flipstick Into Spring

Across the Fence #234

This is a great time of year. The grass and fields are beginning to turn green and the drab, brown colors are finally fading. The trees are even budding out and the allergies are kicking in. We feel alive again and renewed as the sun warms us. It's May in Wisconsin (Iowa and Minnesota too), and time to finally wash the long underwear and hang them in the closet for a couple of months. I'm still keeping my winter coat and hat handy just in case.

A friend mentioned this week that winter seems to last longer every year... at least half the year. The area where we live is supposed to have four seasons. That only leaves two months for each of the remaining seasons. No wonder winter seems to last forever.

It's kind of like when you were young, the school year seemed to last forever and summer vacation flew by. That last month of the school year must have been hard for the teachers and probably still is. Some things never change. It reminds me of when we let the cows out in the spring after they'd been cooped up in the barn all winter. they ran around, jumped, and head-butted each other. Spring will do that to you if you live in the Midwest.

The best part of spring was not spending half the recess dressing and undressing in order to play outside for a few minutes without freezing to death.

Lets take a trip back in time to Smith School, where I went to grade school. When Spring Fever hit, we spent more time staring out the windows and found it harder to concentrate on our lessons. There were ballgames to play, girls to chase (it was spring after all), places to explore on Birch Hill, and other games like Annie Over and Flipstick to play.

I was recently discussing the finer points of Flipstick with Margaret (Lee) Hanson, one of my Smith School classmates. The ensuing years seem to have dulled our memories to some extent, but we managed to remember some of the main points. Did you ever play Flipstick? It was a great game to play once the snow had disappeared and the mud became solid ground.

The equipment needed was easy to obtain and cheap. Just fins a couple of sticks about an inch in diameter. Make one about two feet long and the other about six inches. We remembered scooping out a small hole or slit in the ground using one of the sticks. Then we chose up two sides and were ready to begin. The short stick was placed across the slit in the ground and the long stick placed under it. The "batter" then flipped the small stick as far as he could and the people on the other team tried to catch it. That's where the name of the game, Flipstick, comes from.

This is where our memories become a bit lacking in content. There was a point system for keeping score but neither of us can remember how it was done. We think the person who caught the stick would throw it back in and see how close to the hole they could come. The batter could try to hit the stick away from the hole. The distance from the hole to where the short stick ended up was measured by the number of lengths of the long stick and points were awarded.

Another part of Flipstick was the "Pinkle." Yes, the pinkle. Don't ask us what that means. I thought it was "Tinkle" but Margaret assured me it was pinkle. The art of pinkling was accomplished by balancing the short stick on the long stick and then hitting it into the air at least twice or as many times as you could before swatting it into the field. Can you imagine having a sharp-pointed stick flying toward your head at 200 miles an hour? Well, it was probably a lot slower than that, but it seemed like a guided missle as it streaked toward your head. That's when you had a choice. You could show off your bravery and try catching it, or duck and let it hit some poor soul behind you. There were points awarded for bravery if you caught it, but we have no idea how many.

I even checked the Internet, where you can find just about anything these days. I found nothing on the game of Flipstick. I know other people must have played the game too and not just us Smith Schoolers.

I can understand it not being known about these days. There's no way the "Playground Police" would allow such a game to be played in this day and age. Most games we played would probably be outlawed as too dangerous.

We all survived, had a lot of fun playing, and I think today's kids are missing out on a great game played with simple, cheap equipment, that offered a lot of exercise to boot. As long as there were trees and sticks in the vicinity, we were in business.

Remembering all this is giving me a severe case of Spring Fever. I think I'll go outside, find me a couple sticks, and do a little pinkling practice in my backyard. Anyone want to join me for a game of Flipstick?

Distant Thunder

Across the Fence #233

American artist Andrew Wyeth died on January 16, 2009. Christina's World is his most famous painting, but my favorite is Distant Thunder. A woman is resting or sleeping in a field at the base of a group of pine trees. Her hat is pulled over her eyes. A box full of berries and an empty coffee cup sit beside her. A dog rests in the grass behind her. It's a very peaceful, restful scene. In my mind I can hear the sound of the distant thunder as the lady rests after picking berries on a hot, muggy, late summer day. Even though nothing in the picture suggests a storm approaching, the title adds the unseen element.

It's a scene that reminds me of similar summer days, lying back in the grass on the lawn and resting as we waited for an approaching storm to arrive. In my mind I can feel the stifling heat and humidity and hear the distant rumbling of the thunder. I lie in the grass waiting for the wind, rain, and coolness that will follow. Those are the images that come to me as I view that painting. They are peaceful and soothing.

Sights, sounds, and smells will do that for you. They trigger memories, both good and bad. Paintings such as Distant Thunder act as memory triggers too. Last night's storm was also a memory trigger for me.

The first thunderstorm of the year rolled across the prairie. I should say it roared, not rolled. The wind blew so hard, the windows in our four-season porch rattled and shook. Before it arrived we could hear the sound of distant thunder and I thought of Wyeth's painting.

I had just sat down to start writing when the storm hit. We have large windows on two sides and a patio door leading to our deck on the other. It offers a great view of Mother Nature at work. In this case, she showcased a spectacular light show as lightning lit up the sky.

I turned out the lights and sat in the dark so I could view it without the reflections of artificial light from within the house. What a show it was! Flashes of lightning lit up the entire horizon, silhouetting the farms and trees in the distance. To the west, flashes of light backlit the grove of trees next to our house, creating an eerie, uneasy feeling within me.

The memory triggers were activated by the flashes of light through the trees and transported my mind back in time to events that remain a part of me, despite my efforts to bury them.

As the wind howled outside and the rain beat against the windows I was once again hiding in the tall grass and brush at the edge of a tree line with five other guys. The rain fell in torrents around us, as I pulled my poncho tighter around my head, trying to keep the pounding rain and misery out. It was a fruitless, losing effort. The rain soaked us to our very core. We were spending another miserable night on an ambush patrol in Vietnam. Those nights when the rain poured, the thunder rolled, and the lightning flashed, always added to the misery and apprehension. It was sometimes hard to tell if the distant flashes and rumblings were from lightning or were we witnessing a firefight in progress. Each flash was like another artillery round impacting and exploding.

Those sights and sounds triggered the smell of gunpowder hanging in the wet, heavy air, the smell of damp jungle foliage, and the wet poncho wrapped around me. The smell of burnt flesh and hair also linger somewhere in the recesses of my mind. Close lightning strikes and the resulting crash of thunder sent a wave of fear through me as we sat in ambush, but there was no place else to hide. Twice, we had guys hit by lightning and I had to go to their aid. To this day, I have a psychotic fear of being outside when it's lightning. I guess that's a good fear because lightning can be deadly.

The mind is an interesting entity. Sights, sounds, and smells triggered good memories and took me to places of peace and tranquility when viewing Wyeth's Distant Thunder. Those same elements transported me to a dark, foreboding place when viewed with the darkness all around me being illuminated by flashes of lightning. The sound of distant thunder, along with all the other elements, dredged up thoughts of another kind of distant thunder; the rumblings od a long ago war, buried in the dark recesses of my soul, that still find the light of day every now and then.

Most people don't realize how powerful the sight, sound, and smell triggers are in releasing memories. We all experience them every day. Many readers tell me that my stories trigger the release of memories buried deep within them also. When that happens, it becomes your story as much as it is mine. You become the person lying in the grass or sitting in the shade of your favorite tree, listening to distant thunder. I bet you can even feel and smell the approaching storm, and hear the wind rustling the leaves of the trees. How many of you have had that experience?

May the sound of distant thunder trigger only peaceful and soothing experiences from your memory bank.

The Old Spinning Wheel

Across the Fence #232

After our father died in 2000, we went through the old farm house, sorting and cleaning, getting ready for an auction. It's a sad time to sort through all your parent's possessions that had been accumulated over a lifetime.

One item that was half-buried under boxes of junk and falling plaster from the ceiling in the back room, my bedroom at one time, was an old spinning wheel. It had always been in Grandma Inga's room. I wondered about its history. I couldn't remember anyone ever talking about it. If only we had asked questions when people were around who could tell us the story about the spinning wheel. Now those people were all gone.

I removed the junk covering the spinning wheel and gently lifted it from the tangled mess that had been its home for the last thirty years or more. I carried it into the main upstairs bedroom where I could examine it more closely. I call it the main bedroom because that room had a small register in the floor that let heat rise to the upstairs. It was the only bedroom that was relatively warm and the one I shared with my two brothers in the winter.

I examined the spinning wheel, trying to find some date or initials that would indicate its source. There was nothing. It was definitely old. It was put together with wooden pegs, not nails. It was not a good-looking spinning wheel. It was downright ugly because half the dark stain or paint had been stripped off, leaving a two-toned appearance. It's no wonder none of the family had expressed any interest in it.

I couldn't remember my grandmother ever using it, even though she always lived with us. But then, I hadn't paid much attention to those things in my younger days. If she didn't use it, then why had she kept it in her room all those years? The upstairs middle bedroom had been Grandma's room. It must have been in her family, but now there was no way to find out or to prove it was a family heirloom.

That evening my cousin, Sandra, called from Colorado to see how things were going with cleaning out the old house. I mentioned the spinning wheel to her and said it was too bad we didn't know the history of it.

"Oh, but we do," she said. "Grandma Inga's mother, Ane Ostrem, brought it from Norway."

Sandra then proceeded to tell me the story, which I didn't remember. "When we were young, on the Hauge farm, Auntie (my mother Anna) would rock me in her lap and read to me. One of the stories was about Rumpelstiltskin and spinning wheels. Grandma then said that her spinning wheel had belonged to her mother and she brought it with from Norway. Grandma never used it but always kept it in her room. It must have been very important to her."

I told Sandra I couldn't remember the story, but then I was three years younger than her. Thank goodness she remembered. Now we knew the history of the old spinning wheel. It was a family heirloom, and as ugly as it was, it was a real beauty and treasure. It may not have been the most beautiful spinning wheel I'd ever seen, but it had personality. I knew we couldn't sell it in the auction. It had to stay in the family.

It had belonged to my Great Grandmother, Ane Bertine Jensdatter Mageland, born in 1857, who married Jonas Tønnesen Østrem when she was twenty years old.

In 1888, the Østrem family arrived in America. The spinning wheel also made the voyage and traveled with them to Wisconsin where they made their home in the hills of Jefferson Township in Vernon County. It was a long way from the small farm they had left behind in the mountains north of Moi, Norway.

I thought all four of us kids should have a chance to be the next keeper of the spinning wheel, so I said we should draw straws. Actually we drew knives! My sister, Janet, picked out four kitchen knives. Three had decorative handles and one was plain. I told them before we drew knives, that whoever got the spinning wheel must make sure it stayed in the family and their children must also understand the importance of it. I said we should start with the youngest, just to be different, because the oldest usually gets to go first. Since I'm the oldest, I was the last to draw and the only knife left when it got to me was the plain-handled one.

The old, ugly spinning wheel that once stood in the Mageland and Østrem homes in Norway; that had sailed the Atlantic Ocean with the family on its trip to America; that once sat in the old log house on the pioneer Ostrem homestead in Wisconsin; that went from farmhouse to farmhouse in those tough times when my parents and grandmother moved from farm to farm; that stood in my grandmother's bedroom all those years; and spent the last few years relegated to obscurity under piles of junk, would now find a new home in our house. We have restored it. It's now beautiful, and we've given it a good home as the keepers of a family treasure until it passes to the next generation.

A Money Saving Offer for You!

Across the Fence #231

I got your attention with those words, didn't I? Saving money or receiving news of a great way to make some fast bucks, always gets people's attention. How many times have you heard this line? "If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is." Yet people are sucked in, or is that suckered into, unbelievable deals every day.

The internet has opened up all kinds of new scams to try and sucker us out of our money. I recently read that 96% of all e-mails are spam! I think everyone with an e-mail address has received an offer from a person in a foreign country, usually Nigeria, wanting us to be the recipient of millions of dollars. I received three offers this week. All I needed to do was send them my contact information and bank account number so they could deposit the money directly into my account. I had been selected to distribute millions of dollars to charities and I would keep twenty percent of the money for my help. Sounded like a great deal to me. I could always use an extra million bucks. Maybe some of you received the same generous offer. I'm never surprised when I hear that people are still falling for this scam. I think it was P.T. Barnum who said, "There's a sucker born every minute."

There are also fly-by-night businesses that rip people off. When we lived in Madison it wasn't unusual to hear about somebody being scammed by drive-by contractors who would see a house that needed a new roof or a driveway that needed repairs. They would stop and offer a reduced price to repair it. Oh by the way, they needed money down so they could go and buy the supplies. Once the money exchanged hands they never saw the person again.

In these days of economic problems, people are looking for ways to save some money. But what looks like a great money-saving deal, may end up costing them a lot more in the end.

I run into this a lot in my job, especially as money and competition for it gets tighter. Recently, I received an offer for TV service at an unbelievably low price. I wondered how the company could offer that price without "selling the farm." Most people never read the fine print in an offer. I make it a point to always go over all the fine print. When the fine print in this offer was magnified large enough to read, it filled an 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper. That offer that sounded too good to be true, was just that. I discovered that if I signed a contract with the company I'd end up being bumped up to the Cadillac Package after the six-month offer ended. I wouldn't have a choice because I'd be locked into a two-year contract. 

The next eighteen months would cost five times as much. In the end, I'd pay a lot more over the two-year period than the service I have now. Plus, I'd have to pay hundreds of dollars in cancellation fees to get out of the contract if I didn't like the service. It pays to read the fine print and not get suckered in.

However, cheap introductory offers in any type of business, often blind people to the total cost, and they seldom read the fine print.

Whenever I can, I like to support local businesses. When we bought appliances for our house, we went to a local business, rather than a big box, national store. Could we have saved a few dollars by going the big box route? Maybe. But we received great personal service from people we can trust. If something goes wrong, I know we can get help without getting the run-around.

Many things have changed. We live in a much different world today. It's getting harder to find local businesses that are family owned and operated. Too often we're dealing with a local outlet of a national company. It's pretty hard to walk into their headquarters and talk with someone if you have a problem. I remember when I had a phone/computer problem in Madison. Even though it was a large company with a "so-called local office," I ended up talking with a woman I could hardly understand. I asked her where she was located. "Malaysia," she replied. When I tried changing my TV service I talked with a woman in India. She scheduled a "local" appointment. They never showed up. I tried for two days to get service and finally called the :local" Madison number and got a man in India. I told him to forget it. I didn't want their so-called "Local" service.

Another advantage of doing business locally is money stays in the community and is used over and over again, to the benefit of many within the area. Those local friends and neighbors aren't going to offer you a deal "to good to be true." They don't want their offer to take a big bite out of your pocketbook later, and make you an irate, unhappy customer. They want you to keep coming back.

The bottom line is, read the fine print, ask questions, and if the deal sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Above all, whenever possible, do business with local people you know and can trust.