Aloha, Matilda

I think my 1995 IBM clone computer is failing in health. It doesn't want to turn off, and it will not turn off -- repeat, will not turn off -- unless you give it a breathing space of about five minutes to grasp the concept. Then it doesn't want to turn ON, until it has extolled the Powers That Be to gird up its loins, get the AC flowing, check its parameters (or whatever it does), and stand at the ready. Or almost ready. Ready in a minute or so. Ready pretty soon. What's the hurry?

Waiting for Matilda to respond is kind of like the fairy tale Rapunzel. You can emote, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your golden hair," and wait for her to come alive for you... until you wonder whether Rapunzel has eloped with the pizza delivery man. When the hair does fall down it doesn't seem as bushy as before. Is Rapunzel out cavorting at the marketplace and not paying any attention to business? Does anyone besides me wonder what is going on inside of the box? (Remember HAL? Be careful...)

Give the old girl credit, though, once she survives all the processes, she does a credible job, only occasionally acting stubborn or losing the place, and only attributable to her perhaps 50% of the time, the other 50% my fault; after all, I am no spring chicken either. Maybe we just suit each other. Heaven forbid that some young person should sit down and try to coerce anything out of Matilda the Rapunzel, she who waltzes to her own tune. If it became a matter of Wills, my money is on the machine, not the kid. After all, Matilda has survived neglect, power surges, eight years of Republicans, moving back and forth following the sun, and the rebuff of being replaced twice. It's a wonder she even responds at all.

In any event, it will be like saying goodbye to an old friend to abandon it. How can you young people blindly pitch your present devices for the siren calls of the newest techie marvels? Why I don't even like to trade in my 20 year old used car without a teary look back at the lot, where it sits disconsolately getting its tires kicked, wretchedly waiting to see if its new owner will keep the oil filled. Sob! That's the car that got me to the hospital on time, beating out the stork, the car that took me on the vacation where I fell in love with the mountains, the car the kids used to learn to drive... I understand why so many old cars (in the South, where I grew up) wind up in the back yards becoming space ships for the young 'uns or coops for the chickens, rusting away in peace, like in a nursing home. Do you think that rusting hurts steel more than pride? and how did a car get into this eulogy for Matilda, anyway?

Make way for progress. Youall write if you get work.