| Old Man, New iPad |
This week’s visit to Dad, on the first day of Passover, covered a lot of ground. Jeannie was at church getting baptized, so the house was blessedly quiet. I’d brought over a rich chicken and matzo ball soup to share—something he hadn’t been able to enjoy since last year. And for entertainment, I came equipped with my new iPad.
I take for granted today’s technology, and indeed, look forward to more ahead. But for my father, who on top of his recent confusion is a virtual technophobe, it’s all a bit too much. He can manage things like the answering machine—and even had a pre-internet era computer which he would fire up now and then for word processing only. A few years ago, with some urging from me, he bought the new “e-mail station” which could be plugged into a phone jack and then used to send or receive e-mail; he got as far as taking it out of the box and trying to read the instructions before nearly having a panic attack; he returned the device unused.
My dad is not unlike many older people in his fear of all this newfangled stuff. He’s seen plenty of changes in his life, and has gone along with most of them, but there may be a limit to how many new things a person can learn. At least that seems to be his situation.
Trying to make the experience more relevant, I’d uploaded something special on Youtube to share with him: an educational TV broadcast from 1966, featuring none other than my father discussing the history of Commedia Dell’arte. I remember, as a 6-year-old, being awakened earlier than usual to watch the broadcast with him as it aired on a weekday morning.
Now, 46 years later, we’re together watching it again. But for my father, the experience appears to be more overwhelming than fun. I imagine him struggling to understand how the old broadcast, captured by kinescope and preserved on 16 mm tape, is now coming through my sleek iPad as we sit at the dining room table.
Maybe there’s another problem too—for him as he is now to watch the image of who he used to be—the competent, if overly reserved, professor holding forth on a topic which he clearly knew well. Yet in the video, he appears stiff, even uncomfortable at times. The crude technical quality of low budget 60s educational television makes his presentation seem even more awkward.
Sensing his discomfort, I switch to other apps: Pandora radio, including a performance by a singer he always enjoyed, then a live webcam view of New York harbor and the Statue of Liberty; he comments on the boats as they go by. “It’s a real-time view,” I say helpfully. “It’s actually happening right now.” Again, he seems overwhelmed, though he describes the experience as “stimulating.”
I suggest a walk around the complex, and he agrees. On familiar territory—his own back yard—he is more relaxed and focused. He shows me the pool and the club house and greets a neighbor working on a project, as we make our way around and back home.
Now that I think of it, a leisurely walk in the early spring sunshine, father and son talking together, is better than any number of high-tech devices, which often end up separating people more than bringing them together. Much as I like my toys, Gene seems to know inherently that there are more important things in life.
