Being tough, cool and groovy
The year was 1969. I was just starting my senior year of high school. I finally had a girlfriend. My grades were pretty good, and I had a great job working as a carry-out boy at the local grocery store. I had secured a partial college scholarship (in band, but don’t judge) and I was ready to shake off the oppressive shackles to which I was subjected (or at least thought I was.) Life was good. I certainly wasn’t a part of the “in-crowd,” but I had a small cadre of friends, and we were champions of humanity. We were going to change the world, stick it to “the man,” and live life to the fullest.
As my hair got longer, my sensitivity to those in my current environment (mostly my sisters) grew shorter. They were younger than me, and looking back, I can see with more clarity that there was at least a modicum of respect for the young man I had become, but at the time, it felt like “the kids” were walk-ons, bit players in the drama of my existence. I paid them scant attention for the most part, and thought myself to be older, wiser, and a lot more “hip.”
My sister Louise was a sophomore in high school that year, and although we didn’t hang out in the same circles, we had mutual friends. (Actually, I was dating one her classmates, which I suspect wasn’t easy for her considering they had been good friends since they were in grade school.)
One evening, several of my friends had gathered at my house to ponder existential nausea and despair, the war in Vietnam, the latest Beatles album, and the burning questions of the day, which might have included which sketch on Rowan and Martin’s “Laugh-in” was the satirical bomb.
Louise happened into the room and tried to insinuate herself into the conversation. I don’t think my friends really minded (she was after all, a girl. And cute. And very smart.) On the other hand, I didn’t view her in that way at all, but rather as a pest who needed to keep moving and leave me and my friends alone.
Rejecting my less than subtle glares, she held forth. Finally, I’d had enough. and I encouraged her (that is a generous interpretation of my tone of voice and attitude) to leave us the *%&^ alone. I could see the wounded look on her face as she began to gather herself and head towards another room. Just as she was almost gone, she turned and said, “I’ll leave, but I just wanted to be tough, cool, and groovy.”
That phase has haunted her through-out the years as it became a sort of taunting mantra that several of my family members (probably mostly me) would throw at her from time to time. Teenagers can be insensitive and cruel, and I was certainly no exception. Sorry about that Lou!
That’s a long introduction and other than the punchline, has little to do with what I’m contemplating today as I write, but lacking context, I’m not sure the following tale would make much sense.
One of my greatest joys in life at this point in my journey is my relationship with my four grandchildren. Although we are separated by many miles (Alaska and Minnesota) we have regular contact through text messages, Facetime conversations, and the (much too) infrequent trips.
As they have all grown, I’ve tried to keep abreast to the best of my ability with the latest technology. (That’s actually not completely true — it took me many years before I broke down and was willing to use an iphone.) I am trying not to be a luddite, and I know that the world in which they live and will outlive my generation, is a world of technology, and thus I’ve tried to be conversant about Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram — well that’s about the extent of my savvy! I know nothing about Viper, Group Me, Tango, Whatsapp, oovoo, Whisper, Tumblr, Yik Yak, Vine, or Burn Note.
My youngest granddaughter got a “Gizmo” for Christmas and sent me the link to her account so that I could connect with her more easily. I’m still an advocate of talking on the telephone, but apparently, that is passé, and if I’m going to stay connected with the youngsters, I’m going to have to more thoroughly embrace the technology revolution.
At this juncture, I have yet to get “Gizmo” going because the task seems daunting. Myra has figured it out, and would probably set mine up, but I want to do it myself. (Or at least I thought I did — now I’m not so sure, when Myra reads this, she’ll laugh and get me going. Hopefully.)
You see, although the vernacular of the day has changed, I still want to be relevant. In the now infamous words of my sister, “I just want to be tough, cool, and groovy.”