Please, please, please make sure you back up your home computer

We recently upgraded our personal computer. By my estimate, it now runs about a gajillion times faster than it did before.

That's great, but the big takeaway from the process for me was not "get yourself some fancy new hardware." It was the importance of maintaining a regular back-up schedule for your files.

We have so much valuable stuff on our desktop computer, from photos to financial information, that I don't even want to think about the consequences of losing it.

Still, for a day or so, we feared a good chunk of our stuff had gone to that great cyberspace trash bin in the sky. It was nerve-wracking.

We were working with local computer expert Tommy Otwell, a native Georgian who now lives in Wickliffe and knows more about hardware and software than I could ever possibly hope to learn.

Tommy rebuilds and sells computers and plays tech doctor for those in need. His rates are very low (to the point that I'm worried the man isn't making any money off of this), but he clearly knows his stuff inside and out.

I saw that Tommy was selling refurbished desktops and reached out to him about buying one. He looked at our current system specs and determined he could make our existing computer feel like new with only a few changes.

And, just as advertised, the system was screaming fast when he brought it back to us. It really was like having a new computer.

However, our precious and oft-used documents folder was missing dozens of subfolders and hundreds of files that had been there previously. These were files we used all of the time. I honestly panicked.

Thankfully, though, without getting into too much detail, Tommy recovered everything for us. It was a case of all's well that ends well when dealing with an old mechanical hard drive that was getting ready to fail.

Tommy rightfully scolded me for the fact that the most recent back-up I had of our documents was a year old. I thought I had done one more recently, but apparently not.

On Tommy's advice, I purchased a subscription to Carbonite, a service that automatically backs up your files on a regular basis and stores them on the mysterious Internet "cloud." Should something happen to our computer at any point, a very recent version of our stuff will be out there, just waiting to be restored.

I promised Tommy I would regularly check to ensure Carbonite is doing its job. I also promised him I would, every few months, use a can of compressed air to blow out the dust and cat hair that had accumulated in and around the CPU.

Seriously, you could have knitted a sweater with the stuff that was trapped in the cooling fan.

The point, ladies and gentlemen, is that your computer serves you well. Make sure you return the favor by treating it to some much-needed maintenance every once in a while.

"Dad, you're an orphan now"

That's my father holding newborn Jared, August 1998.

We share what could be described as a dark sense of humor in my family.

There are many examples of this, but one of the funniest happened last summer on the day my mother passed away.

That sounds terrible, but it's true. When we got word that she was gone, there were the initial tears and hugs and sharing of memories. And then my daughter Chloe informed me that, as of that moment, I was officially an orphan.

I laughed at that. Hard. Something about the use of the old-fashioned word "orphan" juxtaposed with the situation just made it funny.

That, I guess, is how we sometimes deal with painful realities: We turn them into somewhat-less-than-polite jokes.

I bring this up because today would have been my dad's 92nd birthday. I inherited my sense of humor largely from him, and I think he would have found the orphan comment funny.

When someone would ask him whether a certain person had died, he would almost always reply, "Well, I hope so, or else they played a hell of a joke on her when they buried her."

If asked how someone died, he would invariably tilt his head to one side, close his eyes, and say, "Like this."

I'm busting up just thinking about it.

Dad has been gone for nearly 22 years, but his legacy of inappropriate remarks and ill-timed humor lives on in his children and grandchildren.

He would be proud to know that.

A man's STILL got to know his limitations

(NOTE: This post was published five years ago today on September 5, 2016. I went back to it to see if it all still holds true. The answer is yes, except that, as recently pointed out, I don't do long tedious car rides as well as I used to. Other than that, these are still a few of the items on my long list of weaknesses and flaws...though to my credit, I fully embrace them all.)

Harry Callahan was right. Here are mine:

• If you're giving me directions, do not refer to points on the compass unless I'm traveling on a well-marked interstate. Otherwise, you're better off telling me something like, "Now when you get to the Dairy Queen that kind of looks like the Mos Eisley spaceport in 'Star Wars,' you're gonna want to take a left. You'll know you've gone too far if you come to the billboard for Swanson TV dinners." Those reference points I can relate to much better than north, south, east or west.

• Does the job involve hammering and/or basic operation of a screwdriver? Fine, I can do it. Are power tools and/or measuring in the mix? In that case, please see my wife.

• Cutting the grass? Yes, I'm a virtuoso. Landscaping of any sort? Yeahhhh, let's call a professional.

• I can sing the melody. I cannot sing harmony. I long ago accepted this fact.

• Athletically speaking, I'm all about running and jumping. Once you start throwing hand-eye coordination into the mix, you're going to want to pick someone else for your team...unless we're talking about hitting a slow-pitched softball, in which case I'm probably still your guy.

• Writing? Yes. Editing? Absolutely. Grammar question? Most likely. Drawing and/or general design? Next, please.

• Would you like me to dance? Fine, but the music must be limited to an 80s power ballad for which homecoming-type, rock-back-and-forth slow dancing is acceptable. There is no foxtrotting and/or Lambada-ing coming from this guy, let me tell you.

• I'm very good at tedious, long-distance car trips. I can be in that driver's seat for 12 hours and still be raring to go. But if at the end of the trip you ask me to parallel park on a busy street, I will melt right before your eyes. Really, my body will turn to liquid and I will enter another state of being that prevents me from even attempting to wedge the vehicle into that tiny space. A similar phenomenon occurs if you ask me to drive a stick-shift.

• I will sit spellbound for an hour listening to Mahler. I will not do the same for Merle Haggard. I'm also ready on a moment's notice for an all-day session of M*A*S*H* binge-watching, but I cannot abide more than seven consecutive minutes of almost any CBS sitcom, "The Big Bang Theory" excepted.

• Roller coaster? Sure, I'll come along if you'd like. Spinny ride? Sure, I'll puke on you if that's what you're looking for.

• I max out at roughly one beer or one glass of wine. Beyond that there's trouble. As for hard liquor, my preferred maximum there would be zero.

I continue to believe the vast majority of people try to do the right thing the vast majority of the time

I was thinking back to last summer when my mom and my mother-in-law passed away within 18 days of each other.

It was a pretty rough time, particularly coming as it all did in the midst of COVID, which prevented traditional viewings and funeral services.

I have a lot of memories from the summer of 2020, but one of the most vivid is the way family and friends jumped into action to help us. This mainly took the form of food, which as I've said before is one of the best things you can provide when someone is dealing with the loss of a loved one.

We received mounds and mounds of food. Some of it came in the form of heaping platters dropped off at the house, while some came from gift cards that were given to us. Either way, it was so greatly appreciated and reflected overwhelming generosity on the part of many people.

Now that we know what it's like to be on the other side of this equation, Terry and I tend to be more thoughtful (and hopefully more generous) than maybe we were before in these situations.

I had the opportunity to help recently when one of my new co-workers, Emily, underwent a thyroid procedure that had a somewhat lengthy recovery period. Emily has a husband and two young boys, and we all knew the last thing she needed post-surgery was to worry about how her family was going to eat every day.

So a meal train was organized in the office, and as far as I know, every single slot for many weeks was quickly filled by volunteers. Given what I had learned from my own experience, I jumped in right away to contribute a Grub Hub card, which (believe me) is going to go over much better than had I attempted to cook them something.

Anyway, the whole experience confirmed my belief that most people are essentially decent. None of us is perfect, and we all fall short of where we ideally should be. But I contend that almost everyone you encounter is trying their best under differing circumstances to be a good person.

And I always find that heartening.

My eyes have suddenly (and very rudely) betrayed me

A few months ago I posted about the fact that I still, in my early 50s, had no need for reading glasses.

I tried to say it humbly, but honestly, I think I was bragging a little.

Enter karma, stage left...

Since mid-summer or so, I've noticed that small text on my phone and computer screen is blurry and difficult to read. It wasn't blurry in the spring, and now it is.

I always assumed my eyes would age very gradually, but it feels like they went directly on the visual spectrum from "Eagle Eye" to "Blind as a Bat." And there's no denying the fact that I could now really use a few pairs of reading glasses.

I've already given in and adjusted the default text size on my iPhone, which felt a bit like an unwelcome milestone. It was a lot like my transition from running to walking: I did it, but I did it grudgingly.

Apart from Jesus and actor Paul Rudd, Father Time is undefeated in his dealings with humankind. It may take longer with some of us than others, but the fact is, we will all succumb eventually.

This admittedly is a very minor inconvenience in the grand scheme, and I'm blessed to have good health in just about all of my other physical processes. After I finish this post, I will search online for one of those inspirational memes that helps us remember to count our blessings.

Not that I'll be able to read it, but I'm sure this laptop has a text magnification button.

I shouldn’t be as impressed by our Roomba vacuum and Braava mop as I am

We recently bought two robots.

Well, actually, what we bought are the Roomba autonomous vacuum and Braava robotic mop made by a company called iRobot. You either have one of these or you’ve at least seen how they work, so unlike me, you’re probably not especially fascinated by them.

But I’m smitten. I know it isn’t exactly cutting-edge technology, but all you have to do is tap a button on your phone and instantly this machine, whose sole purpose in life is to keep your floors clean, springs into action.

That’s a Jetsons-style miracle, as far as I’m concerned, and I’m not sure we as a society appreciate these sorts of things nearly as much as we should.

We of course have named both devices. The Roomba (which has taken on a male persona in our house) is called “Dustin Bieber,” while the Braava (a female, for whatever reason) is “Moptimus Prime.”

I’ll admit to being especially proud of having come up with Moptimus Prime.

I’m surprised by what a good job these things do on our floors. And shoutout to whatever team of engineers designed the algorithms that allow Dustin and Moptimus to map out our first floor and maneuver deftly around almost any obstacle.

Our cats react to the robotic cleaning crew in different ways. Ginny, for example, is extremely interested in both Dustin and Moptimus and tries to sniff them whenever they’re active. Fred, by contrast, is terrified of them. He cannot get far enough away once they start moving around.

My dream is that one of the cats eventually works up the courage to jump onto Dustin or Moptimus and ride it around the house. In the meantime, I’m just going to enjoy our sparkling, space-age-clean floors.

The excitement of finding out who your teacher was going to be

When I attended Mapledale Elementary School back in the Bronze Age, we engaged in a particular early-September ritual that now brings back fond memories.

Mapledale was a K-6 school, and while in the later grades you started moving from room to room for different subjects, you still had one main teacher. Finding out who that teacher was going to be was exciting and even a little nerve-wracking.

The way this information was conveyed was that someone (I’m assuming the school secretary) would type up the class lists and literally tape them onto the windows at the front entrance. That would unleash a steady stream of kids on bikes who would pedal up to the school to find out to whom their education for the coming year had been entrusted.

I don’t remember doing this to learn that Mrs. Janes was my kindergarten teacher, but I vividly remember heading up to the school (it was just at the end of my street) to find out I had Mrs. Lucci for 1st grade, Mrs. Schwarzenberg for 2nd and 6th, Mr. Blauch for 3rd, and Mrs. Grabner for 4th and 5th.

Nowadays, at least here in Wickliffe, the process is a little different. You receive a packet of forms in the mail each August that includes a note from your teacher, and that's how you find out who she/he is. 

Even though we don’t have kids in elementary (or even middle) school anymore, I always enjoy reading the posts on the “We Love Wickliffe” Facebook page from parents asking “Who else’s child has Mrs. X?” It brings back great memories.

I don’t know that either the old or the new method is better, but I do miss that moment of excitement when you scanned those paper class lists and found your name. It meant school was right around the corner, and at least you knew something of what was in store for you.