The three bleats that tell me a message has arrived woke me at midnight. Thanks for the tweets, I read. A good reason to be awakened. Patrick, in Evanston, noticed that I had checked out his #TwitterPlayFest entries and re-tweeted them.
I embraced social media in that gaga way that middle-aged people sometimes respond to modernity. I post on Facebook and I send the link of my blog to Twitter. I have 279 followers on Twitter and I “follow” 698 people there. I have 839 “Friends” on FB, and I know quite a few of them in what we Luddites call “the Real World”.
My son uses twitter more as a testing ground for his comedic writing. He raises his eyebrows at the manner in which my generation uses Social Media. I don’t mind his opinion. Life tires me; it’s easier to keep pace with family and friend in my nightgown wrapped in the lovely shawl which Trish Hughes gave me, a cup of tea by my side. I telephone; I go to dinner; I share coffee on the porch. I don’t live exclusively in the virtual world. But the virtual world can enrich one’s life by allowing one to see photos of people dear to you; by letting folks share poetry and inspiration; by providing a manner for quickly sending comfort and encouragement; in the same way that a handwritten letter once did albeit at a snail’s pace in comparison.
It used to bother me that my son and his friends send texts rather than call and speak voice-to-voice. But in the dark of the guest bedroom where I’m hunkered down until the upstairs bathroom rehab concludes, my son’s midnight text drew a smile to my face. I no longer complain about any method by which people for whom I care and who care for me communicate. Send up some smoke signals. I’m listening.