New operating system, new pains

In a fit of insanity exacerbated by desperation, I bought a new smartphone this past weekend. What causes me to doubt my intellectual clarity at the time of purchase was choosing a Samsung phone running the Android operating system instead of a familiar iPhone. What was I thinking?

My old iPhone 5SE just flatout died on Friday morning while I was road-tripping to Kansas City to see family. I quickly learned that traveling without a smartphone was, ahem, challenging to say the least. While my friend’s iPhone was working for maps and such and even played nicely with car’s CarPlay, her phone did not fill the void left by my old phone’s demise. So Friday evening, I visited a local TMoble store and accepted the advice of a smarmy salesman and quickly bought the new phone.

I’d been thinking about moving to an Android phone for some time. Although a faithful Apple user for many years (my first computer was an Apple II in 1983), I have been primarily using cheap Chromebooks for the last few years as my main computing device and have been satisfied with their functionality. Apple products seemed to be ever more expensive, I store no data in Apple’s cloud, and well, just maybe, it was time to shake things up cognitively and learn a new system.

An old Apple rep often used the analogy that changing operating systems in technology was like moving into a new house. For the first few days after moving in, one cannot remember where the light switches are, what cabinet the Scotch tape is in, or whether to turn left or right in the hallway to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night. It made one wonder what one was thinking buying a new house when the old one was so comfortable! It is only after a few days or weeks that the new homeowner starts to appreciate the extra bedroom, the nicer yard, the greater proximity to work, and other benefits of the new abode. And so it is with a new OS. It takes time and familiarity to re-learn where things are, what the new buttons do, and configure the settings to meet one’s personal preferences.

While I can certainly use the new phone, I am still in the “why in the hell didn’t I stick with my old OS” stage. Besides a lot of time-sucking experimentation, downloading old apps and trying to remember passwords, and silently cursing, I’m slowly working my way through the phone’s user manual and a downloaded copy of Android for Dummies. (I could not bring myself to get Smartphones for Seniors.) I am also getting adjusted to the size of the phone - this one is substantially larger than my old SE. I need a longer thumb if I am to operate it one-handedly as I did with my old one.

For many years, I suffered along with those who I supported at work when the school district would change technology systems - new student information systems, new email programs, even new telephone systems. While no change was made for the sheer annoyance of the staff, it usually had that effect. We encouraged training, patience, and acknowledgement of the benefits of new systems. By and large, the folks with whom I worked were good sports and had bigger worries than complaining about a feature now being under a new menu. But some still gave me the stink eye for months, even years, after the forced transition. Or maybe it was for something else.

I will keep plugging away learning my new phone. I am sure I will come to love it as much as I did my old iPhone. But if I seem cranky right now, you know why.

How much house does a person need?

Image source: https://lihi.org/tiny-houses/

His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave long enough for Pahom to lie in, and buried him in it. Six feet from his head to his heels was all he needed. “How much land does a man need?” Tolstoy

Back in the neolithic age when I taught high school literature, one of my favorite stories to have students read and discuss was the one from which the quote above is taken. Easy to read, short, with a slam-bang ending and an obvious moral, it seemed to resonate with even those students whose frontal cortexes were still developing. 

The plot of the story involved a Russian peasant who works and schemes to gain larger and larger plots of land to farm (and control). But no matter how big the acreage and how much profit he makes, he always seems to need more. His final attempt to increase his spread is a deal struck with a nomadic tribe on the Russian steppes - for a set price, he will be given title to as much land as he can walk around over the course of a day. Of course his greed kills him in the end.

I look at homes today compared to the one in which I grew up and often wonder just “how much house does a person need?” The small farm house in which I, a younger sister, and younger brother were raised couldn’t have been more than 1000 square feet. The home had three main floor bedrooms, two very, very small, and one bedroom in a converted attic space. There was a single bathroom with a tub. The unfinished basement had a shower, space for canned goods, and a cream separator. We had an “eat-in”kitchen. As I remember, a hired man occupied one of the bedrooms now and then. 

By today’s standards, such a house would be considered at best a starter home, but more likely than not, a tear-down with the lot re-used to build bigger. Residents of today’s neighborhoods in the Twin Cities complain that huge homes are replacing the modest, classic homes from the early 20th century, thereby destroying the charm of the area. I get it.

Last Sunday’s Star Tribune newspaper featured a house in its Homes and Gardening  section on the Root River near Cannon Falls, a small town about 40 minutes south of the metro. (A modern farmhouse on the river, 3/20/22) At nearly 8700 square feet with 5 bedrooms, 7 bathrooms, and swimming pool with pool house, the place epitomizes why I often ask the question about how much house does a family really need.

I lived in what I would consider a fairly large house for many years. At about 2900 square feet, it had three bedrooms, an office,  two and a half baths, two family rooms, and a great room with a combined living room/dining room. While my son was living at home and when my daughter and her family visited, every inch was used. But most of the time, I only went to the basement to change the litter box or put salt in the water softener.

On retirement, I moved to a much more modest townhome, At 850 square feet, there are two bedrooms, and one bath. No family room. No basement. I use the second bedroom as an office. The one car garage is detached. It is easy to keep clean and warm. I’ve managed to stuff both my son and daughter’s families in it during holidays and my dining room can accommodate 8 place settings. It works for me and costs a fraction of what I was paying to live large.

Yet even I sometimes still feel a bit guilty when driving past tent and shack encampments of people who do not have permanent homes. I am quite sure my home would feel as large to many of them as the “farmhouse on the river” would feel to me. 

The concept of “tiny houses” of less than 400 square feet intrigues me. I suspect it would be a bit like living in a travel trailer or efficiency apartment - both of which I have at one time done. Were we to equally divide all the square feet of living space now built by our total population, I wonder how close to 400 square feet we would come?

Housing, however, is not a zero-sum game. Giving our less well-off folks habitable accommodations doesn’t mean the rich folks can’t have their mansions. But the inequity in this country is embarrassing. 

How much house do you need?

A service or a disservice?

Image from Wikimedia Commons

The day will come when my children will need to drag me, kicking and screaming, into an “assisted living facility” aka - nursing home. While I am hoping this is still a decade or two in the future, there is an air of inevitability surrounding the prediction.

But maybe that is not a bad thing. 

As my regular readers know, I spend quite a lot of my retirement time volunteering for a non-profit organization that has as its mission “helping older and disabled people live independently as long as possible”. Each week I give rides to several folks to doctors, hair stylists, and grocery stores. Often they are accompanied by a walker or wheelchair. On Friday mornings I shop for groceries and deliver them.

While the majority of my clients meet me at the door to their house or apartment building, now and then I get a glimpse into their homes if they request that I come in, usually to put away groceries, help with a mobility aid, take out garbage, or do a small task like move an object that is too heavy for them to lift. Too often I feel like I need to take a bath in disinfectant when I leave. The dwelling is filthy and cluttered. Cat litter boxes are overflowing. Cigarette smoke clings to the furniture. Newspapers and magazines are strewn about. Cupboards are overflowing with opened but uneaten foods. Dirty dishes fill sinks and counters.

Being something of a neatnik, I don’t know how these folks survive, let alone live a pleasant, comfortable, healthy life. But perhaps worse than the abysmal living conditions are the social conditions experienced by many of those I serve. Or should I say the social conditions not experienced.

In visiting with folks as I drive them to and from their appointments, I learn about their relationships with their families. The happiest and most cognitively alert men and women almost always have family nearby who support them in some way - visits, phone calls, tasks done. But my heart just breaks when I hear of how my rider is alienated from their children. Recently widowed. Long divorced. Never married. No children or no surviving children in their twilight years. Nor does it seem that they engage in non-family gatherings. I don’t hear about churches or clubs or service organizations that fill the need for social interaction. It feels that my short times with them in the car and waiting room may just be the only time they talk to anybody.

One fellow I often take to appointments became a widower a couple years ago. He continued to live in the nice condominium he shared with his wife. Other than a mobility issue, “Phil” seems to be in good health. One of the topics of conversation we engaged in was his frustration in finding a new romantic partner using online dating sites. “All these women are after is a free meal,” he once complained.

After hearing this tale of woe a number of times, I related a story to Phil about when I was looking for a place to live a few years ago and toured a “62+ housing cooperative.” On entering the large lobby, I was instantly surrounded by very friendly ladies who quickly gave me a long list of reasons why I should purchase a unit in the building, including potlucks, bingo, yoga classes, card games, educational programs, etc. They all seemed very friendly, if you know what I mean. And trust me, I am no George Clooney.

I relayed this story to Phil hoping he might take the hint that a change in housing might be more likely to lead to a new mate than Match.com. The odds are pretty good given that women do outnumber men in ever higher percentages as they get older. I haven’t seen Phil’s name on the list of those needing rides lately - maybe he heard my story.

Why are older adults so stubborn about staying “independent”? In many ways I sympathize. We like knowing where things are. We don’t like rules that may limit how we live. We may have pets we need to give up. A move may mean downsizing and having to part with cherished items (or the things we like to hoard). We may lose access to our local stores and parks and services. We may not want to feel like we must socialize. We want to be able to still cook our favorite foods in a full sized kitchen. 

But perhaps the biggest reason we don’t want to move is that we will leave behind not just furniture and knickknacks and pots and pans, but memories. We may be leaving a house we shared with our spouse, our children, our grandchildren, our friends. It may have been the place of happy Christmases and birthdays and graduation parties. When we look at that chair in the corner of the living room, we might still see that now long-dead, much beloved dog curled up in it. I understand the determination of those who wish to stay “independent.”

There is no one right answer to helping older adults lead both safe and happy lives. But we should be encouraging those who are at psychological and physical risk to move to places that can provide needed care. For most of those I drive, I provide a service. But I worry that for some, it is indeed a disservice. And I am not sure what, if anything, I can or should do about that.