P is for Punch

Eek! A Mouse

Somehow, the house was quiet, almost as if everyone were gone. Is this actually possible? Maybe "the children were nestled all snug in their beds," or some natural disaster had required that everyone be evacuated. Anyway, I sat at the computer--alone. A half-eaten manuscript clung to the screen. This was my big chance to type longer than one consecutive minute. Except now there was no one there to give me help.

I think back to an earlier time, when life was simple. I taught my son to play his first video game. Push the A button to make the character jump. Push the B button to make him spin. Push them simultaneously to make him pull out his charge card and order pizza. Holding the control in a vise-like grip, his little arms lurched and swooped in an effort to control the guy behind the screen. I could beat him at those games. I was in control. He needed me. Gradually, his sisters learned the craft. They helped each other. I resumed my life in the kitchen.

Then, enter computer, stage left. My husband hooked it up to its life-lines, loaded, unloaded and downloaded, and read Dos for Dummies until his eyes bugged out. (Alas! There was no Dos for Moms.) As my children zapped their way through math games, I would hover nearby, lest they should somehow be sucked into the black abyss of Dos. When I finally did sit down to type, it was usually short-lived. Dad would return home in the evening and find me staring at a screen full of "reprint, retry, abort." I returned to my yellow #2 pencil.

As the kids matured and advanced in their technolife, Mom was left farther behind. When I got into trouble at the computer, they would gently lead me away, saying, "Mom, let me fix it. It's easier than trying to explain it to you." Instead of speaking computerese, I would blabble on about this button that I pushed, or that place that I clicked on. My family listened patiently, and by deciphering my grunts and mimes, were finally able to understand where I had filed my article.

And that's what it was like the day the computer ate my manuscript. I have since learned that there is a little button to push at the bottom of the screen so that letters don't disappear every time you push the space-bar. I can find the thesaurus picture at the top of the screen, can center my titles, and can type a mean letter or rattle off a memo in 30 minutes flat. Some day, if I get up enough speed, I might be able to merge. I can even cut and paste, without getting it all over the screen. The computer has certainly made my work quieter. It sits and gurgles to itself, which is much easier on the nerves than the clackle-clackle-ping of an old Underwood.

But when story ideas explode like a shaken can of pop, and the computer is busy figuring taxes, or writing an essay on plants, or cranking out a thank-you note, nothing works like my trusty old yellow #2. I scribble, cross out words, and draw arrows until my paper looks like a Wal-Mart parking lot at Christmas. Then, later on, the desk sits empty. Aha! Now's my chance to try to conquer the labyrinths of Lotus. I sneak furtively across the room, only to find the Sony Trinitron monitor smirking to itself. And out of the corner of my eye, I'm sure I see a mouse move.

Does anyone have a pencil sharpener?

Even in this fast-paced, high-tech world, isn't it comforting to know that the Lord helps us even in the smallest matters? Ps. 32:8

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