The World Has Changed
Recently, I've noticed that today’s world is not the world of my past. It’s certainly not the world my mother grew up in.
One of my favorite karaoke songs, introduced to me by the teenager who used to live here, is “My Mama’s Broken Heart” by Miranda Lambert. It depicts a daughter’s response to a breakup marked by screaming, substance abuse, and violence, in contrast to her mother, who expected her child to clean up and put on a calm face.
I realized that many of the things I do are not done quite the way my mother did them. The world has changed, for better or worse, and I have changed with it, most likely for the worse.
Where's My Phone?
When I was a child, the rotary-dial telephone sat on a round table large enough to hold only a phone, a lace doily, a small notepad, and a pen. The table sat in the hallway. It didn’t even earn a place in one of the house’s frequently used rooms. Maybe it was kept in this spot so Mom could hear the deep double clangs from any room in the house. Eventually, we progressed to a wall-mounted, pastel-toned device. My parents even installed a second phone in their bedroom. We were quite advanced.
Today, my phone never leaves my side. Walking to the kitchen and leaving my phone unattended, far away in the sunroom, creates a sense of unease. Fear of missing out—the anxiety created by the thought of a missed call, media post, text message, or email—is not quite a recognized mental disorder, but it’s getting there. The realization that I can’t remember where I put that darn little blue mini-purse down causes near panic. “Rich! Call my phone!”
My mother could walk to the neighbors’ for an afternoon chat, hang clothes on the line, or drive to the grocery store for hours without ever wondering what she’d missed. How did I become so dependent on something that didn’t even merit a second thought back then?
I’ve been practicing walking away from my phone. Of course, I’m usually carrying an iPad or a laptop and always wearing a smartwatch, so I never really miss anything except the silence.
Good Night, Everyone!
When I was a child, if I ever found a reason to stay up past midnight (which was rare), I would hear, “This concludes our broadcast day. We now conclude with the playing of the National Anthem,” followed by a song we all knew by heart. Screen time ended at midnight. End of discussion. We turned out the lights, locked the front door (sometimes), and went to bed. It was just us kids with Mom and Dad until morning.
Those end-of-the-day messages disappeared sometime in the 80s or 90s of the previous century.
Today, input from the outside world never ends. Texts, IMs, emails, internet searches, binge-watching TV, FB posts, and 20 or 30 other social media platforms bombard us with information 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Instead of turning out the lights and going to sleep at midnight, I’m often staring at a tiny screen, playing an online word game, or reading a digital book.
I’ve even forgotten how to enjoy a day of rest. I feel guilty if I don’t accomplish something every day. I need to adopt my parents’ strategy of the enforced afternoon nap and strict bedtime. Maybe I should find one of those apps that shuts down my devices by a certain hour. I could use the rest.
I Pledge Allegiance
In 1976, our family traveled from PA to California in a car without air conditioning, pulling a pop-up camper. In 1976, you couldn’t drive past a town or business without seeing signs for the planned July Bicentennial events. The celebrations included reenactments, festivals, an unbelievable number of parades, and even the opening of a new Smithsonian venue, the Air and Space Museum.
In 1976, we stood proudly in our classrooms, hands on our hearts, as we recited the Pledge of Allegiance. That pledge is now absent from most schools.
As we celebrate our country’s 250th anniversary—and I shudder at how quickly those 50 years have passed—I look for the grand celebrations, but I’m not finding many. In some settings, it's hard to admit to being a patriot. The red, white, and blue vest I made in my seventh-grade Home-Ec class would be frowned upon in today’s society.
I’m saddened that the spirit of America has died in recent years. I don’t like everything happening today, but I still love my country. I love the beauty of the mountains and rivers and the chance to learn about the amazing people, past and present, who shape this country. I hope that by the 300th anniversary (I’ll only be 114 then), we’re ready to return to the over-the-top, inescapable celebratory images of our nation's history.
Short and Sweet
"Short and sweet" perfectly described my mom...
And my attention span.
Recently, my husband, Rich, was listening to a C.S. Lewis sermon on YouTube. I found myself taking every sentence from that classic sermon and turning it into a meme of those zingy one-liners. When did my attention span shrink to one-minute messages? I even cut out half of my stories for this newsletter because most of us can only read short blurbs before falling asleep. (Sometimes I can’t even stay awake through a short blurb.)
For those of you who stuck with me through the entire newsletter, I have an offer.
With the launch of my debut novel, The Wandering Place, I realized something else had shifted.
You see, I’ll never get rich selling books. I give away more copies than I sell. I love giving and receiving gifts.
I was excited to give away a few books as thank-yous to those who have been reading my posts for several years. I spent hours combing through my subscriber list, tallying opened newsletters, and building a spinning-wheel random-drawing tool. Okay, making that spinning wheel was fun. I may spin it a few times just for the thrill of it.
That’s when I noticed the change. I emailed the winners and got no response. I asked them to reply to my email with a mailing address so I could send the new book. Maybe they just didn’t want the book.
But I realized what had changed, and it made me sad: Normal, safe, and sane people do not share their mailing addresses, even with someone who has entered their homes for the past four years through newsletters. And how could I blame them? I wouldn’t share my mailing address with someone I’ve never met.
So I’m going to try again, but this time I’ll draw names only from those who chose to enter. If you would like a chance to win a free copy of The Wandering Place, simply reply to this newsletter email, and I’ll enter your name on a new, smaller spinning wheel. But unless you live close by, be prepared to share your mailing address with me if your name is drawn. I’ll need a way to send it to you. Of course, my mother would have walked as far as her legs would carry her, knocking on doors and handing out invitations for the drawing. If she didn't know the people behind the door, they'd be fast friends by the time she stepped off their porch. But it’s not my mother’s world anymore, is it? (The spinning wheel will spin on June 14, 2026 - Flag Day.)
Comment on this post or sign up for the newsletter (and say, "Hello, I want to enter!") to enter the drawing.
