NIGHT OWL

When I was a kid, there was a popular saying whenever someone said, “who”—“Your feet don’t fit a limb.”  Well, maybe they don’t, but I’m an owl—a night owl. I know many other night owls. We seem to be programmed to stay up way into the night. Is it hereditary? I don’t think so. My parents weren’t night owls. They got up early in the morning. Dad always set the clock on the coffee maker to perk at some terrible early morning hour and took time to drink a cup or two before leaving for work.

Does anyone go through a ritual like me? Before Barbara, my wife, retired, she would tell me how badly I needed eight hours of sleep for my health. I had gotten by nearly all of my adult life on six hours or less. She would tell me, “You’ll be surprised that once you get horizontal, you’ll go to sleep.” I would make a commitment to go to bed at nine and read for a while. This would last for a couple of nights, a week at most, and then a process would kick in. I would go to bed at 9:15—then 9:30 and before long I would be back to my routine of staying up till midnight or 1—sometimes 2 or 3.

In January of this year, Barbara retired. I no longer needed to get up to drive her to work. This is a wonderful thing for me—it means I can get eight hours of sleep no matter what time I go to bed. Whenever she mentions my staying up late, I remind her I am getting my eight hours. I honestly think if it were left to me, I’d probably stay up all night and sleep during the day. Then, eventually, rotate around to sleeping at night and stay up during the day.

One thing I’ve noticed, Barbara is staying up later more often. I don’t know if she’s given up on me changing or if she’s been a closet ‘night owl’ all this time. She is different though in one respect. She was raised on an Iowa farm and whenever the light of day touches her eyes, she is up and doing Yoga, quilting, reading or working in her garden. Me? I’m such a sound sleeper that I don’t think a bomb would wake me.

Barbara enjoys the journey of everything. She savors every detail of whatever she’s doing. I on the other hand am a workaholic. I want to get from point a to z and start something else. Retirement hasn’t changed me. Years ago, to keep from being frustrated about running out of time, I developed a strategy. I knew the sun was always shining. Therefore, life is one long day, interrupted by naps. This has allowed me to shut down my day, relax, take a six-hour nap and go again.

I am very grateful that Barbara is my best friend. After being friends for ten or twelve years, we started dating. She knew, from the beginning, I would be a challenge that would involve a lot of acceptance and compromise when we went out to eat one night. She looked at my plate and asked, “Do you ever eat anything red, green or yellow?” I replied, “Sure-jelly beans.” I was serious. Thanks to her loving persistence, I now eat veggies. We laugh about our differences and enjoy our life together.

Well, it’s after midnight. Time to take a nap. Whoooo means goodnight in night owl language.

Tom Blubaugh, Author of Night of the Cossack and other works

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The Nana Monster

By Dr. Jerri Fink

Tech was always my best friend. As the daughter of an electronic engineer, I had the first TV in the neighborhood. When desktops arrived in the 80s, I quickly climbed aboard. I was an author - I had to go digital. My first computer was a 1982 "portable" called Kaypro 2. It weighed a svelte 26 pounds - about the same as my 2-year old son. The  9-inch green phosphor screen only displayed text. If I used it for too long, I ended up with double vision and spidery green after images. I loved it anyway.

My Kaypro and I had some wicked battles in the beginning. I was convinced that it was possessed. Eventually, we made peace and I was officially a digital writer. As long as my kids kept their sticky fingers off the keyboard . . .

It wasn't long before I made friends with the internet. In those days, I had to use a "gender neutral" screen name because it was 96% male. The favorite sport of those early geeks was to harass women online. I called myself onbase in honor of the Mets and baseball. I still use the name - among five others.

The rest is history. Tech and my kids grew up with car phones, beepers, pocket PCs, and Palm Pilots. In those days, kids tortured their parents by refusing to eat dinner if it wasn't hamburgers or pizza. Not my kids. As soon as I left the house they would call my car phone to chat, knowing that every precious minute cost a fortune. That was long before smart phones and family plans.

When my kids went to bed, I pulled out my Rocket ebook - almost a decade before Kindle hit the shelves. It weighed 1-1/2 pounds and stored about ten books. I was in tech heaven. Eventually the first Kindle leaped into my hands in 2007, storing an unimaginable two hundred books. The new Kindle holds about four thousand titles - not including movies, magazines, and streaming video. Now I own a Kindle Fire and an IPad, with more books than I could finish in two or three lifetimes.

I took everything in stride until Facetime. By then, iPhones, iPods, and iPads were a way of life. I thought it was very cool at first. The first time we tried it my four-year old grandson ran away crying. We waited a year until he was five and his little brother was three. They loved it.

There was only one problem. Everyone under the age of twenty looks great on Facetime. Everyone older looks, well . . . awful. Forget the wrinkles, the jowls, and the colored hair. The face turns into a . . . monster.

As an author of both children and adult fiction, I was used to writing about monsters. I wasn't used to being one. What's a geezer to do?

I became The Nana Monster.

I growl, I roar, I send little kids screaming from the screen. They love every minute. No one knows the geezer beneath the bloody red glasses.

What's next? I'm concerned about holograms that project people "as-is" not twenty years younger and twenty pounds thinner. I've avoided video but now with the Bloggie and Playsport, a camcorder is easier to use than a smart phone. I'm doomed to technological distortion - somewhat reminiscent of "reality." It's clear that my once-best friend is on the warpath to make me look . . . old.

There's only one solution. Text the grandkids.

The author during a trip to Antarctica 

Dr. Jeri Fink is a proud geezer and the author of hundreds of articles and nineteen published books. Trees Cry For Rain, her latest book, is a gripping historical novel where the past crashes ruthlessly into the present. It can be purchased at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

Her new series, Broken, consists of five separate novels that follow dramatic, related paths from the Spanish Inquisition to modern times.

For more information about Jerri's books visit her website www.drjerifink.com or email her at drjeri@drjerifink.com