Across the Fence #384
I climb the bank, through the tangled trees and brush to reach the place where the eagle soars. I climb on the back of the eagle. The cold wind caresses my face. I ride on the back of the eagle between the outstretched wings, and we soar.
This eagle, a thousand years old or more, and I, just sixty-seven years; together we ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
Built by Native Americans long ago, I ride it’s back as once they did. The wind flows through my hair; sounds of nature reach my ears. I close my eyes as the eagle and I soar together. We ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
I listen to the wind, hoping I will hear an answer. A thousand years ago they walked this ground, carrying baskets filled with soil. They dumped them here to build this soaring eagle. This eagle on which I now stand and ride upon it’s outstretched wings. We soar together, as we ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
Why was it built? Who built it? What were their names? What were they like? What were their hopes and dreams? What was it like to live in those days? They are long gone now, but do their spirits still linger here and ride this eagle beside me?
A thousand years have come and gone and yet this eagle survives. The years could not destroy its flight. We ride on through the wind, this eagle and I, listening and searching, back over a thousand years to its beginnings, and ahead a thousand years into it’s future. We soar together, as we ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where.
The eagle and I are searching, looking for answers as we soar together. We ride the earth on windswept wings, heading I know not where, one with the earth, on this cosmic ride through space.
The eagle I rode that day, is located in Madison. It’s one of many effigy mounds that are still preserved. Countless more have been destroyed by opening the land for farming in the early days and to urban sprawl and development in more modern times. Now the surviving mounds are protected. There are numerous mounds in the Madison area and I have visited many of them, especially those located in and around the Arboretum. The eagle mound I write about is located in a quiet, secluded area in one of Madison’s cemeteries. Modern tombstones now surround it. At one time the entire area was home to Native Americans. I tried to imagine what the area looked like when they walked upon the ground where I stood.
That day as I stood on the eagle’s back, I couldn’t help but marvel at how those mounds had survived for centuries. Structures we build come and go, possessions come and go, people come and go, but these mounds built from earth survive as long as man doesn’t destroy them. Everything comes from the earth and it all goes back to the earth. I thought about that as I rode the eagle that day. I made the statement earlier, “we’re heading I know not where.” As I listened to the wind in the trees that day, the answer suddenly became very apparent to me. Physically we’re all headed back to the earth to become part of it. Is it any wonder that the Native Americans honor the earth? The earth is part of them and of all of us. If we don’t respect the land, we don’t respect ourselves. If we abuse the land, we harm ourselves. It’s all very simple. If we destroy the environment of the earth, we will destroy ourselves. It’s all connected. The Native Americans have it right. It is a circle of life. Destroy part of that circle and we hasten the death of the circle.
Riding on the back of the eagle on that quiet day several years ago, listening to the wind, and letting my mind explore the world around me, brought clarity to many things about life. I think it helps being raised in the country on a farm. The importance of caring for the land and the earth are instilled in us at a very young age.
Coon Valley, located a few miles from where we live, played an important role in the proper care of the land. Erosion of topsoil on the hillside slopes had destroyed the productivity of the once rich agricultural lands. In 1933, as part of the New Deal, CCC crews planted trees, built check dams, fenced cattle out of forested areas, and installed contour strips for farming the hillsides. Those practices were expanded throughout the country with great success. Contour strip farming was also used on our farm. Proper care of the land saved the topsoil from erosion.
Today I see huge fields around the countryside where all the fences have been removed. Contour farming has been forgotten. Straight, long rows go up and down the rolling hills and erosion has returned. It’s a step backward in the care of the earth in my mind. I wonder what the people who built the effigy mounds would think of how we treat the earth. We soar together, as we ride the earth on windswept wings. I wonder where we are headed?
*
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Nature's Resurrection of Life
Across the Fence #383
Observers of nature are awaiting the resurrection. The snow has slowly retreated, leaving the exposed ground, bare and empty. It’s not a beautiful time of year. March is when we search through the debris of the past year for the first signs of spring and the return of life to the world around us. I like to call it “nature’s resurrection of life.”
As the snow retreats on a sunny, warm day, running water fills the ditches. When we feel the welcome warmth of the sun and hear the sound of running water, it always raises our hopes that spring has finally arrived. Then as quickly as that class tease in high school left you alone and bewildered, the cold winds of March come roaring in, leaving another blanket of snow on the ground. Suddenly spring is nowhere to be found.
March… that yearly tease of a month, that keeps getting our hopes up that spring has finally arrived, and then quickly sends them crashing back to earth and reality. Nature is fickle and is hard to figure out. The resurrection of spring is often delayed.
March is the month of strong, cold winds. They come roaring through the large evergreens with the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Wave after wave arrives with no letup. The bare branches of the hardwood trees scrape against each other with a grinding motion and sound. I love the sound of the wind in the trees. There’s a sense of power and life in the sound.
A walk through the woods may find the first hint of new life emerging from beneath the decaying leaves. The resurrection has begun. It’s a slow process at first, often suffering setbacks as another March snowfall arrives, but once the resurrection process has begun it’s hard to stop it.
For ice fishermen, it’s the time of thin ice and open water. As the ice retreats it opens up other possibilities as fishermen take to their boats and abandon the ice for another year. Even as snow still clings to the northern banks, fishermen pull on their waders, grab their flyrod, and head for the nearest trout stream.
March is the time of change. It closes one door, but opens another. I think of that every time I hear the sound of geese returning. The winter birds begin to disappear, replaced by the returning “snowbirds,” who abandoned us for warmer climates during the winter. We saw our first robins this week. Geese in large numbers, heading north, have been spotted. Red winged blackbirds have returned to the back yard after being AWOL all winter.
The long, dark, nights of winter are giving way to longer days. The sunlight seems to energize us, and like the hibernating animals, people begin to emerge from the warm, comfort of their homes and venture outside again. Life is slowly returning to the frozen north.
I shouldn’t complain. This has been a very mild winter for most of us in this part of the country. But even so, we get tired of the long, dark nights. There was just enough snow to hide the dead grass and broken branches that litter the yard and countryside. Now all the accumulated junk and debris lies exposed for all the world to see. Debris is also defined as the fragmented remains of dead or damaged cells or tissue. That’s about as good a definition of March as I can think of. It exposes the remains of the past year as the snow covering it recedes. March is a drab, brown, junk-strewn world. It will stay that way until the countryside comes alive and the color returns to the cheeks of nature. Perhaps those March winds help pump the life back into the earth… nature’s version of CPR.
March is a wet, dirty month as the ground gives up the frost and turns the bare ground into mud that will suck you in and slow your travels. March is when weight limits are posted on side roads. In years past, deep ruts through the mud where found on most country roads.
Come to think of it, there isn’t much that’s desirable about March. It’s the ugly duckling of months. It’s the relative who comes for a visit and you wonder if they’ll ever leave. It’s the salesman who comes on too strong and you want to show them where the carpenter made the door and don’t let it hit you in the butt on your way out. It’s March Madness and most of your picks get knocked out in the first round. It’s realizing that your taxes are soon due and you haven’t even started on them yet. That’s the month of March.
But, even with all the drabness, unpredictability, mud, and messiness of March, it’s also the month of hope and great expectations. We know that nature is at work below the surface and soon new life and color will emerge from the drab, tangled mess of decay. The days will lengthen, the warm sun will work its magic, April showers will arrive and freshen the earth, and nature’s resurrection will be complete. I’m ready for it.
*
Observers of nature are awaiting the resurrection. The snow has slowly retreated, leaving the exposed ground, bare and empty. It’s not a beautiful time of year. March is when we search through the debris of the past year for the first signs of spring and the return of life to the world around us. I like to call it “nature’s resurrection of life.”
As the snow retreats on a sunny, warm day, running water fills the ditches. When we feel the welcome warmth of the sun and hear the sound of running water, it always raises our hopes that spring has finally arrived. Then as quickly as that class tease in high school left you alone and bewildered, the cold winds of March come roaring in, leaving another blanket of snow on the ground. Suddenly spring is nowhere to be found.
March… that yearly tease of a month, that keeps getting our hopes up that spring has finally arrived, and then quickly sends them crashing back to earth and reality. Nature is fickle and is hard to figure out. The resurrection of spring is often delayed.
March is the month of strong, cold winds. They come roaring through the large evergreens with the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Wave after wave arrives with no letup. The bare branches of the hardwood trees scrape against each other with a grinding motion and sound. I love the sound of the wind in the trees. There’s a sense of power and life in the sound.
A walk through the woods may find the first hint of new life emerging from beneath the decaying leaves. The resurrection has begun. It’s a slow process at first, often suffering setbacks as another March snowfall arrives, but once the resurrection process has begun it’s hard to stop it.
For ice fishermen, it’s the time of thin ice and open water. As the ice retreats it opens up other possibilities as fishermen take to their boats and abandon the ice for another year. Even as snow still clings to the northern banks, fishermen pull on their waders, grab their flyrod, and head for the nearest trout stream.
March is the time of change. It closes one door, but opens another. I think of that every time I hear the sound of geese returning. The winter birds begin to disappear, replaced by the returning “snowbirds,” who abandoned us for warmer climates during the winter. We saw our first robins this week. Geese in large numbers, heading north, have been spotted. Red winged blackbirds have returned to the back yard after being AWOL all winter.
The long, dark, nights of winter are giving way to longer days. The sunlight seems to energize us, and like the hibernating animals, people begin to emerge from the warm, comfort of their homes and venture outside again. Life is slowly returning to the frozen north.
I shouldn’t complain. This has been a very mild winter for most of us in this part of the country. But even so, we get tired of the long, dark nights. There was just enough snow to hide the dead grass and broken branches that litter the yard and countryside. Now all the accumulated junk and debris lies exposed for all the world to see. Debris is also defined as the fragmented remains of dead or damaged cells or tissue. That’s about as good a definition of March as I can think of. It exposes the remains of the past year as the snow covering it recedes. March is a drab, brown, junk-strewn world. It will stay that way until the countryside comes alive and the color returns to the cheeks of nature. Perhaps those March winds help pump the life back into the earth… nature’s version of CPR.
March is a wet, dirty month as the ground gives up the frost and turns the bare ground into mud that will suck you in and slow your travels. March is when weight limits are posted on side roads. In years past, deep ruts through the mud where found on most country roads.
Come to think of it, there isn’t much that’s desirable about March. It’s the ugly duckling of months. It’s the relative who comes for a visit and you wonder if they’ll ever leave. It’s the salesman who comes on too strong and you want to show them where the carpenter made the door and don’t let it hit you in the butt on your way out. It’s March Madness and most of your picks get knocked out in the first round. It’s realizing that your taxes are soon due and you haven’t even started on them yet. That’s the month of March.
But, even with all the drabness, unpredictability, mud, and messiness of March, it’s also the month of hope and great expectations. We know that nature is at work below the surface and soon new life and color will emerge from the drab, tangled mess of decay. The days will lengthen, the warm sun will work its magic, April showers will arrive and freshen the earth, and nature’s resurrection will be complete. I’m ready for it.
*
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Slow Down and Enjoy the Ride
Across the Fence #382
Several years ago we were on our way back to Madison one Sunday afternoon after spending the weekend in Westby. As we got closer to Madison, the traffic increased and people seemed in much more of a hurry. I could feel my body tensing up as I melted into the rushing stream of humanity. The relaxed state I’d been in during the weekend was disappearing. I remarked to Linda, “We’re not in Timber Coulee anymore.” A reference to Dorothy’s line in the Wizard of Oz, when she says they aren’t in Kansas anymore.
That weekend, we had spent time in Timber Coulee, between Westby and Coon Valley, a picturesque area that reminds me of Norway. Many people who settled in those valleys, surrounded by majestic hills, emigrated from Norway. It’s no wonder they chose the area as their new home. A winding blacktop road runs through the valley. A wonderful trout stream meanders back and forth, running under bridges that weren’t present to help those early settlers in their travels. Scattered farms line the road. The steep hills remind me that life was not easy for the farmers who tilled this land and raised their families in the coulees.
County Highway P snakes it’s way down winding hills from Coon Prairie to the valley floor of Timber Coulee, where the ski jumping hills are located. I also remember the many cross-country ski races I’d taken part in among those hills. We continued our winding drive that day, up hill and down. I remarked to Linda that when we had roller ski races from Coon Valley to the ski hill on this road, I was too busy racing to appreciate the beauty of the country we were traveling through.
Near Coon Valley, I decided to take a different route back to Westby. I’ve never been accused of always taking the same road or path in my travels. I like to travel the scenic routes, which used to drive the kids crazy. I headed up the winding road to Spring Coulee Ridge Road. At the top of the ridge, the views are majestic as you look down through the valleys and all the connecting coulees. It reminds me of Norway.
Across Lovass Ridge, we headed back to Westby. Things were quiet and laid back for a Saturday evening as we rolled slowly through town. There are no stoplights to halt your progress. There are only three stoplights in the entire county, all of them in Viroqua.
Heading south out of Westby on Coon Prairie Road, we turned east on Gilbertson Road. It eventually joined Nustad Road and the top of the ridge where we have ten acres of Sherpe woodland.
Past the woods, we ventured down the steep hill into the Kickapoo Valley. Turning north on S, we followed the winding road along the banks of the West Fork of the Kickapoo River. The gently flowing “creek” is where our families and “Hanson” cousins gathered for picnics in the summer. We’d fish or wade in the water while the grown-ups visited and set the food out on blankets. They’d keep a close eye on us because I don’t think any of us cousins could swim. An occasional snake joined us and we’d all panic!
We drove to Bloomingdale and up a steep, gravel road to the old Bloomingdale Church that overlooks the village. It’s where my mother attended and my great-great grandparents on her father’s side are buried. Bloomingdale is filled with a lot of early family history for us.
Left on P, we continued up Clockmaker Valley, another beautiful area of winding country roads, surrounded by hills and woodland. A traveler in a hurry would never venture along these roads. That’s OK with me. I don’t want someone tailgating me as I drive leisurely along country roads. As we came up out of the valley and back onto Coon Prairie, a farmer on a John Deere tractor, waved as we passed. We waved back.
Darkness was settling in as we returned to our room at the Old Towne Motel south of Westby. We walked next door to enjoy the Saturday night Prime Rib Special at the Old Towne Inn. If you want a great dining experience, I would highly recommend it. It’s located across the road from the farm my great grandfather, Hans Hanson Sherpe, bought when he came from Norway in 1861. It remained in the Sherpe family until my Dad’s cousin, LaVerne Sherpe died.
On Sunday afternoon we headed back to Madison, leaving the coulees, hills, and prairies of Vernon County behind us and joined the speeding mass of humanity heading south on Highway 14. I wondered if they were taking time to notice and enjoy the beautiful scenery around them. As the tempo of traffic increased, I was reminded of the saying, “Life’s not a dress rehearsal.” This is the only chance we get. Don’t miss the main act.
Now that we live on the farm I grew up on, we can travel the roads through the coulees and hills of Vernon County every chance we get. It’s wonderful! No matter where you live, or what roads you may travel in your life, I hope you won’t rush through them. Slow down, greet your fellow travelers, enjoy life, and have a great ride.
*
Several years ago we were on our way back to Madison one Sunday afternoon after spending the weekend in Westby. As we got closer to Madison, the traffic increased and people seemed in much more of a hurry. I could feel my body tensing up as I melted into the rushing stream of humanity. The relaxed state I’d been in during the weekend was disappearing. I remarked to Linda, “We’re not in Timber Coulee anymore.” A reference to Dorothy’s line in the Wizard of Oz, when she says they aren’t in Kansas anymore.
That weekend, we had spent time in Timber Coulee, between Westby and Coon Valley, a picturesque area that reminds me of Norway. Many people who settled in those valleys, surrounded by majestic hills, emigrated from Norway. It’s no wonder they chose the area as their new home. A winding blacktop road runs through the valley. A wonderful trout stream meanders back and forth, running under bridges that weren’t present to help those early settlers in their travels. Scattered farms line the road. The steep hills remind me that life was not easy for the farmers who tilled this land and raised their families in the coulees.
County Highway P snakes it’s way down winding hills from Coon Prairie to the valley floor of Timber Coulee, where the ski jumping hills are located. I also remember the many cross-country ski races I’d taken part in among those hills. We continued our winding drive that day, up hill and down. I remarked to Linda that when we had roller ski races from Coon Valley to the ski hill on this road, I was too busy racing to appreciate the beauty of the country we were traveling through.
Near Coon Valley, I decided to take a different route back to Westby. I’ve never been accused of always taking the same road or path in my travels. I like to travel the scenic routes, which used to drive the kids crazy. I headed up the winding road to Spring Coulee Ridge Road. At the top of the ridge, the views are majestic as you look down through the valleys and all the connecting coulees. It reminds me of Norway.
Across Lovass Ridge, we headed back to Westby. Things were quiet and laid back for a Saturday evening as we rolled slowly through town. There are no stoplights to halt your progress. There are only three stoplights in the entire county, all of them in Viroqua.
Heading south out of Westby on Coon Prairie Road, we turned east on Gilbertson Road. It eventually joined Nustad Road and the top of the ridge where we have ten acres of Sherpe woodland.
Past the woods, we ventured down the steep hill into the Kickapoo Valley. Turning north on S, we followed the winding road along the banks of the West Fork of the Kickapoo River. The gently flowing “creek” is where our families and “Hanson” cousins gathered for picnics in the summer. We’d fish or wade in the water while the grown-ups visited and set the food out on blankets. They’d keep a close eye on us because I don’t think any of us cousins could swim. An occasional snake joined us and we’d all panic!
We drove to Bloomingdale and up a steep, gravel road to the old Bloomingdale Church that overlooks the village. It’s where my mother attended and my great-great grandparents on her father’s side are buried. Bloomingdale is filled with a lot of early family history for us.
Left on P, we continued up Clockmaker Valley, another beautiful area of winding country roads, surrounded by hills and woodland. A traveler in a hurry would never venture along these roads. That’s OK with me. I don’t want someone tailgating me as I drive leisurely along country roads. As we came up out of the valley and back onto Coon Prairie, a farmer on a John Deere tractor, waved as we passed. We waved back.
Darkness was settling in as we returned to our room at the Old Towne Motel south of Westby. We walked next door to enjoy the Saturday night Prime Rib Special at the Old Towne Inn. If you want a great dining experience, I would highly recommend it. It’s located across the road from the farm my great grandfather, Hans Hanson Sherpe, bought when he came from Norway in 1861. It remained in the Sherpe family until my Dad’s cousin, LaVerne Sherpe died.
On Sunday afternoon we headed back to Madison, leaving the coulees, hills, and prairies of Vernon County behind us and joined the speeding mass of humanity heading south on Highway 14. I wondered if they were taking time to notice and enjoy the beautiful scenery around them. As the tempo of traffic increased, I was reminded of the saying, “Life’s not a dress rehearsal.” This is the only chance we get. Don’t miss the main act.
Now that we live on the farm I grew up on, we can travel the roads through the coulees and hills of Vernon County every chance we get. It’s wonderful! No matter where you live, or what roads you may travel in your life, I hope you won’t rush through them. Slow down, greet your fellow travelers, enjoy life, and have a great ride.
*
Sunday, March 4, 2012
I'm Not Ready for the Glue Factory
Across the Fence #381
This past week I felt like an old horse who wonders if his useful days are in the past and it’s time to be put out to pasture or shipped off to the glue factory. For younger readers, that’s an old expression used when a horse had outlived his usefulness as a work animal and was shipped to the slaughter house where glue was made from connective tissue, found in hoofs, bones, tendons, ligaments, and cartilage in animals.
There’s a famous jockey who seldom lost a race. When asked how he achieved this he replied, “I whisper in the horse’s ear: Roses are red, violets are blue. Horses that lose are made into glue.”
Thank goodness horses don’t have to deal with computers or they’d have one more thing to worry about. They have enough problems just pulling their load every day. At least they don’t have to deal with their equipment and harness being changed and updated every couple years or sooner.
You’ve probably guessed by now that I’ve been dealing with computer problems lately. As anyone knows who’s used a computer, when everything’s working they are great, but when things don’t work its very frustrating. It’s enough to drive you crazy.
Technology is changing so fast it’s hard to keep up. Technology people say a computer is now out of date after two years. According to that, my personal computer, a MacBook, is heading toward triple antique status. Is it any wonder that things don’t work the way they should? When I get files from other people I have trouble opening them because my system and programs are too old. Whenever I tried to update a program, the computer told me it couldn’t do it because my system wasn’t compatible, meaning it was out-of-date. It was too darn old. I was beginning to feel pretty ancient too, but knew I needed to keep up with technology or head off to the glue factory.
I’m not ready to become somebody’s glue, so I finally decided to bite the bullet and spend the money to purchase a new MacBook Pro. As you may have surmised by now, I’m a Mac guy and have been since I bought my first computer soon after Apple started making Macintosh computers. It’s the only way to go if you work in desktop publishing and graphic arts. Of course us Mac people think it’s the “only” computer!
I also have a Mac at work. That Mac is over four years old, only a double antique. I decided to try upgrading the operating system on that one instead of buying a new computer. That would extent its life for a while. However, because of its age we couldn’t go straight to Lion, a Mac term for their latest operating system. We had to install an older operating system first – Snow Leopard. Then we could install Lion. So now both computers I use have the latest and greatest systems. But not for long; I found out the next system upgrade, Mountain Lion, comes out this summer. Uff da, isn’t technology fun.
At least with the newest operating system I was finally able to update QuarkXPress, my desktop publishing program. So now everything should be fine, right? Wrong! Most of my programs are so outdated they won’t work properly on the new system. Some won’t work at all. Another Uff da.
When I started my office computer on Monday morning, it was the start of “frustration city.” I couldn’t receive or send e-mail. I couldn’t access our company server to get info or update anything. When I tried scanning a photo, the scanner couldn’t find the computer. My new QuarkXPress updated program wouldn’t open and kept crashing. My frustration level and blood pressure was quickly rising and ready to explode. My “Hothead Sven” gene was rising to the surface. I told someone later, if I’d had a .45 within reach, I’d have sent both of my computers on their way to Apple Heaven.
Technology that doesn’t work can really get under your fingernails and becomes a new torture device. It’s even more frustrating when you know just enough about all this new technology to be dangerous. I never know if I’m going to hit the wrong button or command and send the entire operating system into free-fall and crashing into the ground. The problem with a dead computer is that you can’t even make glue out of it.
At that point I knew I had to call in the experts to make everything work properly again. It took most of the day before Dale had it functioning like a computer again. So now I’m back in business, at least for now. I still find glitches as I go along, but most have been corrected.
Now I need to get all my old programs and files transferred to my new personal computer. Uff da, then the frustration will start all over again. That’s the computer I do all my personal work on and write all my stories. Until then, I’m still using my ”triple-ancient” MacBook. I wish I could stick with it. It’s an old, trusted friend and we work well together. But time and technology changes and I need to ride a new horse or get off and walk. I’ll keep riding as long as I can. I’m not ready for the glue factory yet.
*
This past week I felt like an old horse who wonders if his useful days are in the past and it’s time to be put out to pasture or shipped off to the glue factory. For younger readers, that’s an old expression used when a horse had outlived his usefulness as a work animal and was shipped to the slaughter house where glue was made from connective tissue, found in hoofs, bones, tendons, ligaments, and cartilage in animals.
There’s a famous jockey who seldom lost a race. When asked how he achieved this he replied, “I whisper in the horse’s ear: Roses are red, violets are blue. Horses that lose are made into glue.”
Thank goodness horses don’t have to deal with computers or they’d have one more thing to worry about. They have enough problems just pulling their load every day. At least they don’t have to deal with their equipment and harness being changed and updated every couple years or sooner.
You’ve probably guessed by now that I’ve been dealing with computer problems lately. As anyone knows who’s used a computer, when everything’s working they are great, but when things don’t work its very frustrating. It’s enough to drive you crazy.
Technology is changing so fast it’s hard to keep up. Technology people say a computer is now out of date after two years. According to that, my personal computer, a MacBook, is heading toward triple antique status. Is it any wonder that things don’t work the way they should? When I get files from other people I have trouble opening them because my system and programs are too old. Whenever I tried to update a program, the computer told me it couldn’t do it because my system wasn’t compatible, meaning it was out-of-date. It was too darn old. I was beginning to feel pretty ancient too, but knew I needed to keep up with technology or head off to the glue factory.
I’m not ready to become somebody’s glue, so I finally decided to bite the bullet and spend the money to purchase a new MacBook Pro. As you may have surmised by now, I’m a Mac guy and have been since I bought my first computer soon after Apple started making Macintosh computers. It’s the only way to go if you work in desktop publishing and graphic arts. Of course us Mac people think it’s the “only” computer!
I also have a Mac at work. That Mac is over four years old, only a double antique. I decided to try upgrading the operating system on that one instead of buying a new computer. That would extent its life for a while. However, because of its age we couldn’t go straight to Lion, a Mac term for their latest operating system. We had to install an older operating system first – Snow Leopard. Then we could install Lion. So now both computers I use have the latest and greatest systems. But not for long; I found out the next system upgrade, Mountain Lion, comes out this summer. Uff da, isn’t technology fun.
At least with the newest operating system I was finally able to update QuarkXPress, my desktop publishing program. So now everything should be fine, right? Wrong! Most of my programs are so outdated they won’t work properly on the new system. Some won’t work at all. Another Uff da.
When I started my office computer on Monday morning, it was the start of “frustration city.” I couldn’t receive or send e-mail. I couldn’t access our company server to get info or update anything. When I tried scanning a photo, the scanner couldn’t find the computer. My new QuarkXPress updated program wouldn’t open and kept crashing. My frustration level and blood pressure was quickly rising and ready to explode. My “Hothead Sven” gene was rising to the surface. I told someone later, if I’d had a .45 within reach, I’d have sent both of my computers on their way to Apple Heaven.
Technology that doesn’t work can really get under your fingernails and becomes a new torture device. It’s even more frustrating when you know just enough about all this new technology to be dangerous. I never know if I’m going to hit the wrong button or command and send the entire operating system into free-fall and crashing into the ground. The problem with a dead computer is that you can’t even make glue out of it.
At that point I knew I had to call in the experts to make everything work properly again. It took most of the day before Dale had it functioning like a computer again. So now I’m back in business, at least for now. I still find glitches as I go along, but most have been corrected.
Now I need to get all my old programs and files transferred to my new personal computer. Uff da, then the frustration will start all over again. That’s the computer I do all my personal work on and write all my stories. Until then, I’m still using my ”triple-ancient” MacBook. I wish I could stick with it. It’s an old, trusted friend and we work well together. But time and technology changes and I need to ride a new horse or get off and walk. I’ll keep riding as long as I can. I’m not ready for the glue factory yet.
*
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