Hits and Misses

As the holiday season approaches, there’s always a lot of talk about “the best gifts.”

My family was always into giving presents, even in the 1950s when nobody had much money. Every December, my dad would give each of us $2 for our Christmas shopping. One of my favorite places to shop was the jyugose-mise (five-and-ten) on Geary. I remember once finding a beautiful little glass ashtray for my dad, who, at that time, smoked. When he opened the present, others’ reactions made me realize that something was off. It turned out to be a glass doorknob!

That was a “miss,” but it wasn’t as bad as my dad’s idea one Christmas. We were living on 23rd Avenue and had discovered a small mouse in the basement. So my dad got the mischievous idea of filling my mom’s Christmas stocking with mousetraps! My mom was NOT amused. 

More often than not, we made our presents. I must have been in high school when I sewed all the women in the family (mom and three sisters) cloth stocking bags, lined, to keep their hose in. (Remember hose?!) Later, probably in the late ‘70s or mid-’80s after I’d been to Japan, I bought yards of canvas and strap material, and sewed sturdy canvas tote bags with a swatch of kimono material decorating the outside pocket. ((Both the concept and the object itself have aged well–I still use mine.)

As the years went by, with birthdays, Mother’s Day and Christmas, it got harder and harder to think of ideas for gifts for my mom. Some were hits, usually outnumbered by misses. If it was a miss, it went into her closet and was never seen again. After I started working, the gifts got more expensive. I never saw my mom wear the beautiful red wool vest from Smith & Hawken; but she practically lived in the unstructured (Paul Stanley) wool blazer I found at Hillsdale Mall–a soft royal blue/navy blue subdued tweed. That was a hit.

But the best gift I ever gave her was for her 82nd birthday. It was getting harder and harder to communicate with her by phone because of her hearing, and I thought how great it would be if I could get her to use email.

Now, you have to understand: my mom was a technology avoider. She still wrote checks. She would walk to the bank (and go inside and wait for  a teller) every week and write a check to herself to get cash. She had rotary phones long after push-button phones became the norm. She would shut down any suggestion to get an ATM card, a computer, etc.

I’d heard about e-mail machines, and went online to do some research. I read a review of the one I was interested in, and the magic words “overly complex” made me immediately strike it off the list. I needed something with 1) a power button; 2) a “write” button; and 3) a “send” button. Period. Oh, and 4) a “Read” button.

The Cidco Mailstation seemed to fit the bill. You couldn’t send or receive attachments, but you could turn it on, write, send and receive messages. That was all we needed: “Are you OK?” –”Yes.” “Do you need any groceries?” –”I need some green vegetables.” “I’ll pick you up at 11 am.” –”Thanks.”

So I went to The Good Guys in Emeryville and talked to Alex, a very good guy with an Armenian-sounding last name. He was patient, helpful and nice, and I bought a Cidco Mailstation for $99. 

I gave it to my mom when we all went over to her house for her birthday. She looked very skeptical when she opened it. I said not to worry, I would set it up for her and show her how to use it. I was planning to come over the next day for our first lesson.

Being a trainer by profession, I had thought very carefully about how to present the email machine in a way that would not overwhelm her and cause her to get discouraged and refuse to use it. It would need to be a carefully controlled and orchestrated presentation. “Small steps,” I thought. I would first set it up for her, and not even let her watch me doing it lest she despair. Then I would show her how to turn it on, compose a message, and “send.” Another key was finding the right incentive to get her to learn how to do it.

When I arrived the next morning, the first thing she said to me was, “I think I’m going to ask you to return it.” I saw that she had opened the box and the instruction manual was on the table. My heart sank. I hadn’t expected her to touch the box until I could magically introduce her tabula rasa, unencumbered brain to the joys of emailing. I imagined her opening the manual on her own and seeing unfamiliar terms like “cursor,” “Internet service provider,” etc. and wondered if I had blown it right out of the gate by leaving her alone with the box overnight.

So I went into damage control, sales mode. “No, mom–let me show you how it works. It’ll be so convenient–you can send a message and get a reply right away! And then I unleashed my heavy artillery–the perfect incentive: “We’ll practice on thank-you notes for your birthday presents!” (My mom has always been religious about sending thank-you notes in a timely manner.)

First, I set it up with all the email addresses she would need–each of us, and also a group called “Daughters” so she could shoot a message to all three of us at once. I created an account with Earthlink, which Joan had agreed to pay for (it was about $9/month back then). Then I got her and showed her how to turn it on (press power button), open a new message, type in name, write message, and “send.” We wrote a thank-you message to one of us. Since repetition is the key to learning, she practiced by writing and sending the rest of her thank-you notes. That was enough for Lesson 1. (I didn’t want to overwhelm her.)

Lesson 2, on another day, was “reading messages.” She was pretty thrilled at how fast she could get a reply. When I went on one of my then-frequent business trips to Japan, I emailed her to say I had arrived safely. She couldn’t believe how wonderful it was to hear from me practically in real time.

The Cidco Mailstation was a little thing. The tiny screen was not backlit–so it was a bit hard to see. But my mom had great eyesight and thought it was fine. For me, the keyboard was rather cramped. But it was perfect for my mom. She had me set up a little nesting table in the entryway, near the phone jack, and put a chair there so she could email us every day. A few years later, when something went wrong and it didn’t work, she called, sounding panicked. The mailstation had become her lifeline.

Her address book grew as she added friends and other relatives who emailed. I had to explain to some of them that she could not receive attachments–those, they would have to send by snail mail. As the world continued its inevitable progress around her, with cell phones, texts, etc., my mom continued to peck out emails on her trusty Cidco Mailstation. She did eventually discover how convenient it was to have a debit card to get cash and do her grocery shopping.

When we cleared out my mom’s house after she died, it was hard for me to see that hardworking little mailstation go. But the other day, when trying to clean out my email folders, I clicked on the folder labeled “Family.” There I had years of messages sent from my mom. “It was foggy this morning…” “It’s drizzly but no wind so I s\went out…” “I will need 2 bananas…” “I’m glad you woork ed at home yesterday because I saw on the TV  that BART had a power outage and the Berkeley station had dlays.” “Daryl is taking Kiyo and me to Stonestown shopping today.” 

I imagined her sitting at her little nesting table, pecking at the mailstation keyboard. Year after year, all the little moments. It was definitely the best present ever.