technology . . .

I just noticed that three items occupy my bed most often . . . other than people or miniature woolly mammoths:

And when I think back, I have to translate them to this.

The Hermes 3000 was my going away to college present. I had taken one typing class in 7th grade which I missed failing completely by the skin of my teeth. Why are all the keys blank, she kept whining. I was never much of a typist even through the advent of the IBM Selectric and the first non-windows based computers. Finally somewhere in desperation at my job, I learned fairly well, but that was after some 40+ years of trying. Now, my laptop and I are inseparable. I can finally type.sort.of.

My father gave me my first phone for my 13th birthday. Back in 1962, you did not buy phones per se. They were rented from the phone company. But, knowing how desperately I wanted my own line, he managed to buy this puppy on the black market from Canada:

Oh, how I loved sitting on my bed, tethered to this phone, chatting with Lolly and Kris. Life was excellent. As you can see, I still have the beast and it sits in my living room. Up until a few years ago, it still worked. Now you can no longer dial out but it still receives incoming calls. (Note: a friend changed the wiring back in the 70's, relieving it of its 4 prong plug and installing a newer snap jack.) So how amazing is it that one can now send emails from their phone, it even replaces this little bit of goodness from my childhood:

And speaking of emails, I finally figured out how to send one from my Nook. Ask Kelli, she was the recipient. Which of course brings me to the third item. My Nook. I have been a reader since forever. I remember my father lamenting when I was five that all I read were comic books. My mother's reply was: leave her alone, at least she is reading. And read I did. One day, at age seven, I picked up a copy of the latest book my mother was wading through and started to read. I was well into the first chapter when she noticed. You're not reading that are you, she asked? Why yes, I replied. Tell me what it's about she demanded. Once I told her, she snatched away the book, drove madly to the library, signed me up for my own card and pointedly headed me to the children's section. snort. But books have always been important. How can they not be. So again, the form may have changed but my love of reading has not.

Which all makes me wonder what will be on my bed when I turn 82?