Month: February 2023

I love old, corny sci-fi movies. One of my favorites is a 1970 film titled “Colossus: The Forbin Project”. Scientist Forbin has developed a giant computer system named Colossus that is so smart, the United States government decides to trust it with control of its nuclear defense system. But the plan backfires when Colossus learns of a similar system in Russia, and unites with it to take over the world. The human race must obey its commands or the unified machines will wipe out humanity by launching its nuclear missiles. The computers keep folks under control by ordering the installation of monitors which watch and keep track of every move every person makes.

In real life, we’re not quite there yet, but I couldn’t help recalling that old movie as I was watching TV in my den the other night. We were in the middle of another rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond. It’s one of our favorite TV shows ever. We’ve seen every episode countless times but we keep coming back to them, mainly because the great majority of new programming is not targeted to us and therefore of no interest. When the show went to a commercial break, a small link appeared in the upper left hand corner of the screen. It read “Ad Info”.

I’d seen it many times before and just ignored it, figuring it was just a strategy to sell me something. For some reason, on this night, my curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to click on it. The most interesting text then appeared on the screen. It was an explanation of why this particular commercial was on my TV. It seems Google, the company that runs my streaming service, has been watching me as I watch my TV. It’s also been tracking everything I’ve ever googled, which is a lot. I google any number of things every day.

The message informed me that this ad was “personalized” for me based on my interests, my searches, my activity while signed in, and my “general location or the general locations where you have been”. Apparently, I was to regard this as a good thing, because the post said it made commercials “more useful to me”. I confess, however, that it gave me a bit of a chill. Not only did I not want my TV to decide which commercials I should watch, but I found it a little unsettling that Google had some sort of portfolio of my interests and locations.

Of course I was aware, on some subconscious level, that this was nothing new. Internet providers have been tracking everything we do on our laptops and desktops and phones for decades. It’s the source of all those annoying pop-up ads we encounter as we surf for important information, such as whether Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez have really gotten back together. Some sites just go right ahead and tell you up front they are watching you. They tell you they use “cookies”, which are basically recordings of what you are doing. Sadly, in this day and age, you have to expect it from your laptop or phone. You go on the internet, you take your chances.

But my TV? Somehow that struck me as being a little more personal and invasive. Besides, Google might get the wrong idea. My program choices can be pretty random. Sometimes I want to watch an educational documentary on PBS about World War Two. Other times I might want to watch the Three Stooges hitting each other in the face with a pie. What if my grandkids are here watching Mickey Mouse Playhouse, or Blues Clues? Can Google figure out it’s not me? Or am I doomed to seeing commercials for Barbie’s dollhouse every day?

I suppose it’s all part of the gradual surrender of American culture to this nebulous thing we call the internet. Maybe the Forbin Project movie was just ahead of its time. What if Google eventually decides to punish me if I don’t watch the shows they favor? They could do something drastic, like force me to watch lawyer commercials. I think I might actually prefer nuclear destruction over that.

Deep in my heart of hearts, I know the ultimate answer is obvious. We should try going back in time, before we even knew what an internet was. Turn the TV off. Close the lid on the laptop. Put your phone on silent. Read a book. Work a crossword puzzle. Write someone a thoughtful greeting card. Volunteer for something. Play with your kids or grandkids. Mow the lawn. Paint your guest room. Take a walk.

Or just buy an antenna.

Forty-seven years of marriage. That’s forty-seven Valentine Days. A lot of times to think of creative ways to express your love for that special person. I started running out of ideas about year twenty. Gradually, our Valentine celebrations got more and more casual. Dinner at a fancy restaurant evolved into the quarter pounder combo meal at McDonald’s. Don’t judge me. I did throw in a hot apple pie for dessert. She’s worth it.

It’s not even clear who this romantic day is named after. There are murky accounts of three different men named Valentine, all of whom were storied to have been martyred by the Romans back in the third century, and later canonized by the Catholic church as saints. You can pick your favorite legend. There’s several of them out there. The one I like best has Valentine being a priest who was forbidden by the military to perform marriages. The idea being that single men would make better soldiers. However, being a hopeless romantic, Valentine continued to perform weddings in secret, uniting countless love-struck couples. When he was found out, Valentine was executed.

Makes a good story. No telling if it’s true. Anyway, the Valentine’s Day tradition really exploded when the Hallmark company popularized the greeting card in 1913. Ah, but true love, and mass commercialism, soon rendered a mere greeting card inadequate. The occasion became an opportunity, some think even an obligation, for lovers (read men) to display their sincere affection with some sort of unique gift or experience.

This quickly became problematic for me, not being the most creative or romantic person in the world. My idea of changing things up is to switch to a dozen tulips instead of roses. Candy? Who needs that? We’re always watching our weight and sugar intake. My taste in stuff like jewelry or clothing is a non-starter. If I were to buy her a sweater, she would flash me a big smile, a heart felt thank-you, and a peck on the cheek. Whereupon the sweater would be hung up in the deepest and darkest recesses of her bedroom closet, never to be seen again, until enough time went by for her to dispose of it discreetly.

Around year thirty-two or so, I decided it was time to truly surprise her with something unexpected, although I had no clue what that might be. At the time, I was doing the morning drive radio show on WDJC, and I decided to go on the air and solicit suggestions for a Valentine gesture that was out of the ordinary. The audience was very forthcoming. Some of the ideas were pretty off the wall, like take her parachute jumping. I don’t even like to step on a stool to check the smoke detector.

But one idea that recurred was the ancient tradition of washing feet. Several women callers chimed in to say their husbands would get down on the floor with a basin of warm water, a wash rag, and a tube of oil. They washed the feet of their bride, and then massaged in the oil. All of the women said they regarded this as exceptionally romantic.

I was intrigued enough to do a little research. I found that the washing of feet was a common practice in both the secular and religious communities back in the day. It was considered a polite and humble way to greet guests and honor them. And of course, there are several references in the Bible. For example, John 13 states ” Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.”

Well, if it was good enough for Jesus, it was certainly good enough for me.  So that year, on Valentine’s Day, after our dinner at Sneaky Pete’s, (no apple pie), I told Sharon to have a seat on the sofa. I disappeared momentarily into the hall bathroom, and reappeared with my basin, rag, oil and towel. She looked at me quizzically. I think she thought I was going to give the dog a bath in the living room. I carefully removed her shoes and told her I was going to wash her feet as an expression of my love.

She went along with it, trying her best not to giggle when I tried to work around her toes and ankle bone. No doubt her favorite part was the oil massage. She sat back and smiled. She clearly enjoyed the gesture and that made me happy. When I finished, not only was she pleased, but her feet looked and smelled great! In fact, I was reluctant to put her shoes back on. I wanted to admire my work for a bit. All in all, it turned out to be a pretty neat moment. I recommend it to any husband in search of a new Valentine’s Day idea.

Afterward, as we huddled warmly next to each other on the sofa, I remembered that some of those radio callers remarked that it’s even better if you and your spouse wash each other’s feet. I chose not to suggest that. No sense pushing my luck.

She was born and raised in Georgia. Motivated by a strong desire for service and ministry, she pursued a career in nursing. She married a man whose job took them on several relocations, all over the country.

At one point, they landed far away from home in Michigan. She hated it there. She cried almost every day, missing her family and roots, now the breadth of a nation away. This felt like foreign territory. Folks there were obsessed with her southern accent, asking her to say certain words, then giggling when they came out different from the way they spoke. She felt like entertainment and novelty to them. She said northerners would equate her dialect to ignorance, gullibility and lack of sophistication. It got so bad, she lamented, that she chose to become very quiet and withdrawn, for fear of inviting mockery and condescension.

Her story struck a sympathetic chord with her listener, whose experience was similar, though geographically running in the opposite direction. Having spent the first twenty-seven years of his life growing up in Wisconsin, he also chose a transient path, moving frequently, eventually finding himself in the south, knowing not a soul, far, far from home. He would encounter steady teasing about being a “Yankee”. Though no one ever said it, he often took it as a subtle implication he was not welcome. This caught him by surprise. He had never thought of himself as a Yankee. Yankees were people who lived along the eastern seaboard. He had always thought of himself as a Midwesterner, and thus, kindred to the people of the south in culture and values.

Nor had he ever thought of southerners as backward or slow. To the contrary, he envied them. His image of Dixie was what he observed on television, a land of good looking, tanned people who frolicked on the beach, enjoyed incredible cooking, and excelled at southern hospitality. As a child, he sat spellbound in front of a black and white TV, watching Bear Bryant and the Alabama Crimson Tide dominate college football, and admiring the way the fans passionately supported their teams. He and his family would religiously watch the Miss America pageant each year, and note that the final ten always seemed to be dominated by smart, poised and beautiful southern women.

Yet upon his arrival, he found himself often stereotyped as impolite and impersonal. Southern folks seemed surprised when he routinely addressed them as “Sir” and Ma’am”, as he had been raised to do. Some were not expecting him to work hard at blending into their traditions and customs.

He could relate to what this woman was telling him. But now, with the benefit of three or four decades of hindsight, they reflected on what they had learned. She moved back to the south. He sensed perhaps a trace of regret in her voice, as she told him, given the chance to do it over again, she wouldn’t let the inquisitive fawning of her northern acquaintances keep her from getting to know them better, and experiencing the love and kindness that is an integral part of the midwestern way of life.

He never migrated back to his northern roots, having fallen in love with the people of the south, who had proven not only to be welcoming, but deeply loving, loyal and inclusive. He would stay for forty years and counting, raise a family there, and feel every bit as much at home as he did amidst the love and security of his native Midwest.

Both of them agreed the major takeaway is that people are just people, no matter where you go. What a shame we let so many things divide us. Trivial things like speech accents, or larger things such as politics, race and income levels. We are so much stronger together. Though it is sometimes hard to recognize, we truly do have much more that unites us than divides us.

We are different, yet so much the same.