When exactly is that age of wisdom, I'd like to know. We 1950s children were supposed to be "seen and not heard." Our elders knew best. And yet now that we've reached that frontier, we are no longer the valued wise.
Who needs elders when there is Google?
We are a generation of in-betweens. Sandwiched between young people who cannot grasp the idea of having an agreed-upon meeting place in case they get separated while shopping in the mall, and older people who annoyingly refuse to learn to text. It seems an odd place to be, and yet I wouldn't trade this newer age of technology for any age of wisdom . . . if that were to be the trade off.
In Among the Zinnias, eighty-five-year-old Giovanna Boeri deals with such a world, in which she is unable to participate. Below is an excerpt:
Giovanna saw people poking their fingers on tablets, but were
they large telephones or tiny televisions?
She wasn’t sure and at first she didn't care. It was only when the
tavern owner changed his sign to read, "Internet Café" that it became too
much. What had he been thinking? No doubt it was his grandson’s idea. Now the
quiet tavern was pinging and dinging day and night as patrons—mostly children
after school—sat in front of the computers, feeding coins into slots. It had
become impossible to bring Pastore di Capre there for a quiet cup of coffee. It
confused him and made him angry. These changes were not good.
“But what do I know,” Giovanna thought, “I’m just an
old woman.”
She had lived her entire eighty-five years on that tiny island
where nothing changed, not even after two wars and an earthquake, until the
recent lightening-speed of what the television news announcers called
technology. She simply could not comprehend a world where one’s image was able
to ricochet between a multitude of towers—one of those towers on the peak above
the village—allowing her to see her daughter standing in a pizzeria in America!
The tavern owner’s grandson never seemed to be deterred by her
scowl as he held the small telephone up for her.
"It’s a mobile, Nonna Giovanna. This is Facetime." The
young man said the same thing every time.
“In America it’s called a cell.”
“A seal.” Giovanna tried the word each time, hopeful as she
awaited the connection but the voices were always scratchy and the images froze
and unfroze like the television on stormy days. It confused her. When she
talked, they talked and no one understood what was being said.
“Call me on the house phone,” she’d end up saying as she batted
the phone from her face.
The tavern owner’s grandson would leave her but he’d try again
on a different day, when he’d get another call from Angelina or Patrice. Rocco
and Pasquale never called. After a failed Facetime attempt, Giovanna usually
ended up sitting patiently by the house telephone—waiting. And when it didn’t
ring she’d get angry.
Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter.
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