"Lefty Loosey"

      

            I suffer from a lifelong disability—left handedness. Now, some people write or eat with their left hand, but do other things with their right hands. Not me! I drag the right side of my body along with me as a useless attachment that often gets in the way. My left side dominance dictates every aspect of my body. Not only do I write and eat with my left hand, I also chew on the left side of my mouth, listen on the phone with my left ear, and kick with my left foot.

         My first grade teacher, aka The Battleax, made eradicating my handedness her crusade for the few months I remained in her class. I remember her swooping down the aisle as I diligently practiced my letters with my giant pencil and Big Chief pad. She’d harrumph her disapproval, snatch the pencil from my fingers, and force it into my right hand. My smooth, neat letters turned into illegible, rickety scrawls. When the principal suggested my mother pull me out of school, she took over as the handwriting expert. A lefty herself, she’d weathered the same discrimination as a child. Her handwriting, a beautiful, disciplined script that flowered across the page, became my guideline. My mother taught me to write using a blackboard. With the angle changed, I dropped the lefty hook that many left handed people use. As a teacher, watching me write on the board often disturbed my students. They commented every single time I wrote on the board. As a result, I arrived every morning to place the bulk of information on the board ahead of time. I was one of the first teachers to jump at the opportunity to use a computer and projector in the classroom.

         My left side dominance often causes challenges. I do not always approach the physical world in the same way. Many little things in our lives put the lefty at a disadvantage. Cabinet doors open to the wrong side. As I sit at my desk, the drawers run down the right side to make opening and rummaging easy for the right handed person. For me to access the drawers, I have to turn sideways. My mouse, too, rests on the right. I’ve learned to maneuver it by practicing with games like Bejeweled. I practice every day. For some reason, placing keys in locks often creates a challenge. The angle of approach, geared for the right handed person, means I’m battling the door frame as I insert the key. And don’t forget the ignition in cars or the gear shifts!

         Discrimination against lefties is centuries old. I could rattle off many different taboos associated with right versus left. Also, left handed people live shorter lives because they have more accidents. Check your statistics if you don’t believe me. It’s not because we’re klutzes, but because our entire day we must compensate. I figure all of the disadvantages accumulate over our lifetimes, resulting in the false reputation of being clumsy when we’re not.

         So as you cut your Christmas wrapping paper in straight lines with grace and ease I hope you remember your lefty friend’s struggle with right handed scissors. When you examine the not-so-perfect wrapping on the gift you receive, keep in mind the challenges of snipping and folding for the left handed.

                  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Technical Difficulties”

  

            Not blogging for a year means I’ve barely touched my printer. The first attempt to print last week generated frustration. My computer and printer no longer recognized each other. A little bit of “this-n-that” and an adjustment to the network let them communicate again. The next problem came from a warning for more ink. That solution entailed a run to Best Buy to purchase the last ink cartridge in their stock.

            Today, I wanted to print two poems I needed to add to the hardcopy of my volume of original verses. Stupidly, I forgot to input which page to print. The printer hummed and began cranking out the entire one-hundred-forty-two pages. Cursing, I instructed my computer to stop the job while David jumped in and shut down the printer right in the middle of a page! That created another set of problems—paper jams. In all of the years we’ve had this printer, we’d never wedged any pages into the machine. We accessed the back by unplugging the entire thing and moving it to the bed to remove the stuck poem.

            Reattaching the printer, I commanded for only that one page to print. The warning about ink appeared and nothing happened. That special trip to Best Buy to buy that final cartridge never ended with the ink finding its way to the printer! Instead, it rested on the lower self of my husband’s desk, waiting patiently for installation. Unfortunately, swapping out the toner didn’t immediately solve the problem as my computer kept insisting that the ink was low. We decided to restart everything.

            Victory! I printed out the three poems to add to my closeted hardcopy.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Computer Problems"

 

 

           The other day, the screen on my trusty laptop suddenly went black. I didn't feel too worried as I shifted to my husband's computer to do an internet search to troubleshoot the problem. At first glance, it looked like a simple glitch that sometimes happens with laptops.  Unplugging the computer, pulling it's battery, and discharging the machine would put it back in order--if luck sat on my shoulder. However, that maneuver only worked for a short period of time. I managed to salvage a few documents by emailing them to myself before the Black Death appeared again. Determined not to dig myself into a pit, I pulled the battery out again and walked away from my laptop until David returned home from work.

My laptop contained all of our photographs from our trip to Ireland. Some pictures we've posted to Facebook, but many more remained on my hard drive. We decided that if we got the computer up and running, we'd back up the pictures onto an external hard drive. Crossing our fingers and whispering words of encouragement, we fired up the computer one more time. We quickly began transferring photos. The process took a couple of hours because we had so many pictures stored. 

Then the screen returned to black. 

David began trying to determine possible causes--RAM card going out, video card fried. A few other options surfaced for possible reasons for the black screen. All of them spelled doom to my little laptop, though. My Aspire expired on Friday, October 19th within a little sigh and whimper.

When I first began writing, I used an old Amiga computer. I diligently typed my novel each day and saved both to the hard drive and to disks. I printed out each chapter, made revised and edited, and then put changes back into the novel. Two years ago, I dusted off the box that contained this manuscript and retyped it into my laptop. Again, I did a major revision of my work. This time, however, instead of backing up to disks, I sent each chapter to both of my email accounts. I've done the same with my poetry. Even the first three chapters of my latest writing endeavor sits in cyberspace. For that reason, I didn't feel panic over losing any documents. 

After the pictures from Ireland, I longed to save family photographs that mark our days. At this point, the laptop refuses to cooperate. Fortunately, many of my favorite pictures I've shared on Facebook. I can download those albums to a file, so not all is lost.

Losing a computer for my personal use didn't bother me too much. I used to share my husband's Apple and knew I could slip back into utilizing his machine during the day. I have an iPhone now, so I can use it to access the internet in the evenings once David's home. No problem.

My son, however, decided to loan me his MacBook Pro. What a lovely little machine compared to my old laptop. It zings and zaps so rapidly that I feel disoriented. It'll take me a while to explore all of the bells and whistles on this new machine, but I enjoy a good challenge. I count myself fortunate that my son's generosity immediately removed all stress and frustration from my mind. 

Will I miss my little laptop? Only time will tell. 

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman