If your computer has ever been sluggish and you took it into the shop, there’s a chance that, once you got it back, you were no longer able to access your favorite sites (if you are very old).

This is because although your gurus are at the top of their game, they were only trained to restore your computer to an ordinary operating condition. That means that anyone born in a home containing a computer, a television set or a telephone would have the innate ability to start it back up and use it.

However, because you were born before there was a telephone in your home – and, as a child, even trotted to a privy out back – your computer needs one more touch. That is a touch that can only be administered by a hand born before 1940.

The other hand does not know how to send or receive text or make a call on a cell phone. We are talking, here, about a hand that has never played a computer game. A hand that has never learned the necessity of writing down passwords. A hand that only uses Gmail, Facebook, Windows 10, Quicken (a finance management program) and the Google search engine. I also confess that I am addicted to a small round “Hey, Google” machine that sees overtime service as a kitchen timer and, when asked, reports on the weather. It requires no more attention than a frying pan.

Today my old friend Facebook looks at me warily, as if I were an unwelcome stranger, and will not let me in. I am heartbroken, as we have spent hundreds of happy hours together, for it is on Facebook that I compose my newspaper columns. My fingers fly over the keys as I ramble on about how lonely shut-ins cope with nine friends who all show up at the same time. Or I boast of the culinary prowess of my wife, Marsha, The Almost Perfect Woman.

Many of my friends who can no longer hike in the woods or work in the garden post endless pictures of dogs, cats, chickens and grandchildren, interspersed with recipes or pictures of Italian food. Those less fortunate outline in excruciating detail what we have to look forward to when a body part needs to be removed or replaced.

Luckily for me, Facebook is no more than a tool. A valuable resource. A Facebook “friend” whom I have never seen put me in touch with Gary, a semi-retired contractor, who scraped and painted our entire house. His wage was doable, he did more than he was paid to do and his word was as good as a written contract. Through Facebook, I was able to follow Steve and Rachel as they spent three months driving about in Mexico.

You might have similar stories to tell; you might appreciate the withdrawal symptoms.

You might also ask if my Facebook page has ever benefited others. I don’t know. I do know, however, that a young man who helped me on this farm more than once was looking at my Facebook page when he was attracted by something a fair maiden posted earlier. For three years now, they have not missed a weekend out on the town. So, for better or worse, I have that on my Facebook conscience.

A minor problem that came from the shop with this computer is a rectangular box that surrounds my cursor arrow and follows it about on the screen. We read that this often happens when Windows 10 is reinstalled. But several hours of research and try-this-and-then-try-that has not resolved the problem. Again, it’s an insignificant problem that does not in any way detract from the operation of the device. But it is also the type of annoyance that could have been quickly eliminated at the shop.

Before a computer is sent back from the shop, the elderly Luddite who brought it in should turn it on, under four eyes, and see if he is able to open and use his Gmail and Facebook programs. At which time, his capable guru friend would make any necessary minor adjustments that would render the programs usable for the old incompetent. I, for one, would be glad to pay extra for this service.

The problem I have tried to outline here is simply one of the inability of the privy culture to interface with the computer culture. The only culprit is Father Time, he who has so quickly separated the two.

The humble Farmer can be visited at: www.thehumblefarmer.com.

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