My grandson Owen showed me how to use this machine.
He was sitting in the study with this thing on his lap. I sneaked a look at it as I walked past the back of the sofa, on my way to my chair by the fireplace. The boy must have eyes in the back of his head, because he waved at me, and said, "Grandmother, come sit with me, look at this."
"What is it, some virus?" I said to him. I know that computers are prone to viruses and pornography, and that is why I have never touched them -- until now.
"No, we have a blog now," he said. "All of us. We can post whenever we like."
The words "blog" and "post" took a little explaining. I am familiar with "posting" letters in the mail, but "blogging" sounded like something I might do in the privacy of my bath when I have a cold. Owen took a great deal of time to show me various "blogs" on the computer line and I was both amazed and appalled to see what unapologetic criticisms and what tripe was made available to the world.
"Are you saying that I could say anything I wanted to say on this computer?" I asked him.
"Yes, that's exactly it," he said, with a smile stretching his face.
"Who would see it?" I asked.
"The whole world, potentially," he said.
"And realistically?" I asked, knowing that he was hedging.
"Well, some people. Blogs like this only get about four or five hits -- visitors -- in a week." He plopped the laptop computer into my lap. "Go ahead. Post something."
And so I have. My schoolmistress, Mlle. Archon, would be proud of my punctuation and grammar, and my ability to relate a story in English.
Thank you, Mlle. Archon.
Owen tells me that blogs are for opinions, too, as well as stories. With that in mind, I feel a great compulsion to say that Mlle. Archon was the most sadistic individual I have ever met in my life. It was she who convinced me of religion, that there had to be a Hell to punish people as evil and vicious as she. Did we fail to understand her explanation of mathematical fractions? Oh, she had the perfect solution: a wooden ruler to apply to our legs, our arms, our buttocks. (Most of the girls deliberately wore ruffled slips under our dresses, but that only saved our behinds from the stings of that ruler.)
Did we not do our homework? A crack from the ruler was applied to convince us that we should make a greater effort the next day. Were we shy to answer questions before the rest of the school? Oh, I remember Gerard Piedmont standing in front of the blackboard, unable to chalk an answer to the addition problem, weeping, as Mlle. Archon beat him with that accursed ruler, over and over again.
She was horrible.
She made us learn, and when I finally graduated from her ministrations, I sewed a voodoo doll of her and stuck hat pins in it, as many as I could find.
My grandson, reading over my shoulder while he loudly chews a sandwich, asks, "What's a hat pin?"
1 comment:
They did not beat us terribly much when I was little, but they did not teach us anything either. We spent all our time working. Now I think there was another reason, too - but I shouldn't talk about that. I don't want to get the blog in trouble.
Now you have grandchildren! That must be wonderful.
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