I don’t think of myself as old and I’m sure that no matter what your age, you never consider yourself old. But now and then one gets a real lesson in “number of years” and one’s theories about age slide straight down the tubes.
I was out for a walk with my young grandson the other day. He is nearly six years old and knows a lot. We ambled along, holding hands and discussing important stuff like the oranges on the trees at the side of the road, the heat of the sun, a slow-moving beetle and suchlike. I hoped he was enjoying the outing as much as I was. We came to a section where new houses are under construction and grandson immediately passed me his most precious possession. “Hold my cell-phone, Pop, it mustn’t get dirty.” He then tested the stability of the earth the contractors had piled up from excavations by climbing up the mounds of sand and sliding down. I was more interested in the houses and stood trying to determine which way the windows were facing.
“I wonder which way is west,” I mumbled aloud to myself. “Those windows are pretty big and the sun is fierce in summer…”
Grandson had overheard. “I’ll tell you, Pop. Pass me my phone.”
What’s the connection, I wondered, as I handed it over?
Sure enough, this little guy, who can barely write his name, clicked a few buttons, turned his body this way and that and pointed, “West is there, Pop.”
“You can tell that from the phone?” I choked.
“Sure! Look here. I’ll show you.”
“All phones can do that?”
“No,” he laughed, “I got an App so I can tell where I am, don’t you see?”
All I can see is that I have to have one of those phones…
