Repeating Cycles

Since humans first walked this planet, cycles have connected their pasts, presents, and futures to intrigue and inspire them. All cultures have revered rotations of days, months, and seasons as well as life through death progressions. Those sequences fascinate Homo sapiens enough to make them search for them in odd places. Folks who track history and have internet access report that modern marketers are repeating old traditions.

A decade ago, I edited an uncle’s biography. His story caught my interest when I discovered grocery stores operated very differently than they did during my early adulthood. During his early life, customers delivered lists to a clerk who then moved up and down shelves to fill orders. Choices were limited to what was available. No one wandered aisles searching for an exact combination of cough syrup ingredients or Green Giant approved no-salt green beans.

For those who find themselves obsessively reading labels as they cruise canned good, pharmacy, and baking aisles, my uncle’s example of shopping appears ridiculously simple. There’s no way that would work today when consumers determine whether they want organic vegetables or one of the nine types of flour. Heavens, aspirin selections alone can drive shoppers batty. They have to know whether they prefer enteric or regular, high or low dosage, generic or name brand, or . . . the list goes on. Once they reach the wine aisle, matters go downhill.

In the old days, choices were simple. Flour and sugar came from barrels. The only choice involved ordering a specific quantity, and finances often dictated that. Even after stores sacked such staples, space limited brand preferences for canned fruits and vegetables. Consumers bought what was available since my uncle’s store was the only one around in those horse and buggy days.

The little town I lived in as a newlywed still had its old store with high ceilings and wood plank floors. Over time, the owner updated it to include rows of shelving arranged along narrow aisles so customers could carry a basket and collect their own products. Lack of space limited selection so shopping was simple. At a back counter, a fine butcher cut meat to order. Folks could call in their order or drop off a list if they desired. Though it’s only memory, it remains my favorite market.

Recently, a newscast reported major internet vendors sell groceries online. Shoppers log onto sites, review options, select product, pay electronically, and either pick up their items or have them shipped to home addresses. Apparently, robots can fill orders and drones make deliveries. Despite the Jetson-like cartoon angle, this practice follows my relative’s old grocery store shopping model. You wonder if the brainchild behind this had an uncle who collected orders for old-time mercantile patrons.

Mull the possibilities. Will this innovation simplify consumers’ lives? They order what they want and skip competing choice or will someone devise a companion site to reveal exact ingredients and cheapest sources? Will algorithms unveil exactly what shoppers desire before mathematical functions suggest substitutes? Despite its high-tech twists, this shopping technique strikingly resembles my uncle’s first job in a small town grocery store. 

"The Day the Music Died"

Don McLean sang about Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper Richardson’s deaths when he wrote the lyrics, “The Day the Music Died” in his beloved “American Pie.” Current events make me think of another sad meaning to those memorable words. Anyone who’s worked with teens over the past forty years will relate. 

As a high school ball player and forensic team member, I recall quiet trips to events. Coaches didn’t turn on the bus or van’s single radio because they wanted us focused on our competition. The ride home was another story. Team members honed negotiation skills to select a radio station from the many choices others shouted out. Once noisy teens determined the favorite, they convinced the driver to crank the volume high enough that riders in the back seat could hear the lyrics clearly. Music was a group activity in those golden days.

Over the four decades of my teaching and coaching career, this changed. During my first twenty some years of loading kids in a district vehicle to haul them to distant schools, life continued much as it had when I was a participant. Passengers were expected to be quiet as they would be in a prayer chapel going to our destination. However, trips home began with lively discussions about what music to listen to and raucous sing-alongs to ever-changing tunes. This was karaoke before it became a popular party fun.

My favorite memories of these good old days revolve around December bus trips when girls who loved to carol filled the seats. Headlights guided us homeward over the dark plains while greenish console lights inside set a holiday mood. Sweet voices of tired round-ballers sang about hay-filled mangers, heralding angels, gift-bearing wise men, and silent nights. Following those serious toned old tunes, the vocalists would throw in a crazy version of “Jingle Bells” or “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” I may have been exhausted after a 16-hour day teaching and coaching, but I treasured those after-game songfests.

Technology that I normally loved assassinated these singalongs. Over time, as more teens climbed onto buses with personal devices and earbuds, travel became quiet as a morgue. Eventually, the driver or I  picked the radio station uncontested because the passengers were listening to individual playlists. By the time I retired, I had to wave my hands or tap someone on the shoulder to make contact. 

The positive side of this new reality is that no one has to listen to music he or she hates. Folks who don’t enjoy interacting with others slip into private worlds while sitting shoulder to shoulder and remain there until the vehicle stops. The negative involves the same issue. No one learns to deal with the frustration of other people’s preferences.

The element that makes me saddest is that pre- individual electronic devices, music brought students, coaches, and drivers together. It didn’t isolate them. Those mostly dead after-game soirees taught tolerance for other’s musical tastes, negotiating skills, and an appreciation for noisy camaraderie.

Buttons, Handles, and Flushers

A nostalgic essay about the good old days when all food was slow and TVs only received two channels recently caught my attention. It made me think about the differences between my childhood and my grandkids’.

 The paragraph about not having a remote really struck home. The author explained how adults expected children to trudge to the television to manually switch from one channel to the other. I remember those days when dad would tell us to change channels. I might have been a grown up in my own home before I owned a television with a device that allowed us to flick channels without leaving our seats. That was just the beginning of technology that encouraged dependence. Now it’s expanded into restrooms.

 Soon after reading this article, I traveled and, as a result, visited several public bathrooms. Those calls of nature made me realize another cultural shift is taking place. Youngsters growing up today won’t know the time when people using such facilities had to flush their own toilets, turn water on and off at the faucet, and crank their own paper towels. Many stores and rest areas have bathrooms with automatic sensors that do all that for the users. 

As soon as a person rises from the commode, a flush is signaled. The benefit here is that stalls always have freshly flushed stools. The disadvantage is sometimes folks would like more distance before that electric eye sets off this reaction. I guess I’m old-fashioned, but I like being the one to decide when that swirling action begins.

Once users finish their business, it’s time to visit the sink. It doesn’t take long to realize they won’t be either turning a faucet handle or lifting one. In a flash, they notice the distinct lack of handles. Instead, they wave hands under the spigot, and, magically, water sprays over them.

Apparently, soap distributors haven’t jumped on board with automatic dispensers because folks still have to manually press a button to load their palms with foaming cleanser. Unfortunately, while getting suds, hands must move away from the sensing device at the sink, and the flow ends. I’ve discovered it takes a moment to reposition hands correctly to trigger a rinse. That little hesitation always produces a moment of panic. What if the spigot doesn’t go back on and my hands are all lathered up!

To add to this hygiene magic, modern children won’t know about either cranking their own paper towels or pushing the stiff button that forces the roll to spew out a single sheet. They certainly won’t get to use the old-fashioned belt of rotating cotton that I loved pulling out of that metal box  positioned above the sink. Nope, kids will think they wave their hands under a silver flue, and hot air instantly dries them. 

I see advantages to these changes. There is less trash in the bathroom without paper towels. If sensors  work, toilets flush every time they’re used. Despite those benefits, I miss being responsible for activating these devices. If we’ve made changing channels and going the bathroom automatic, what new changes lurk around the corner?