CDZ Connectedness: How strange that there's less of it these days than there used to be

[usmbguest5318]

So, I'm nearly 60 years-old. I grew up in suburban-ish neighborhood. We'd visit family members down South a few times a year, and they'd come to D.C. to visit us a few times too. That's how I got to know my cousins and other relatives. My friends were the other kids who lived in the neighborhood, the kids I saw every summer at the shore who really were just kids from the neighborhood in which we had a summer place, and the kids at school.

I got older, and joined local little league, so did my siblings and we all developed new friendships. I joined the Scouts and made more friends. Momma and her lady friends called on one another, and we kids were often enough in tow, so those were other kids in the area who I grew to know. Later still, I changed schools and acquired more friends, and a few of them I knew from home or the shore, but most of them lived hundreds or thousands of miles from where I did.

From time to time, mostly when my school played a game against one of my friends schools, I'd run into some of the other kids whom I knew from home or the shore because their parents had sent them to rival schools. Every so many years, my parents would decide to take the family to "such and such" a far flung place where one of my classmates lived. That was always nice because I'd call my classmate and tell them we were coming to their town and their folks would talk to my folks and we'd coordinate a day when we all got together and did stuff together. I could be anything -- sightseeing, a day in the park, maybe my mate's parents would host a cookout for us and invite some of their local friends -- but it was always fun. The grownups would always get along, but sometimes they'd have enough in common to stay in touch even after we'd left.

Back then there was no email, no Twitter, Facebook or Internet. There was "snail mail" and the telephone, and, of course, trips to the shore, down South or some city our parents though we should visit. People called one another. I called my friends and acquaintances. They called me and my siblings. Everyone wrote from time to time. "Bobby's baseball team came in first place." "Meredith's pony took second place in her class." "We've moved. This is our new address. Can't wait to have you come stay with us." At the very least, everyone sent, Christmas and birthday cards, and no matter what sort of letter or card they sent, it always came with a couple photos.

It was always a great joy to get cards and letters. It was something new to talk about. It wasn't that folks' news was so grand. On the contrary, much of their news was really rather mundane. These were the goings on not of a person on a TV screen; this was what was going on with people whom we knew. They'd thought enough of me, or my siblings, or my parents to sit still for a few moments, collect their thoughts and write a short note. It felt good to know they cared enough to do that. A phone call was just as good. Back then then when one was on the phone, the person on the other end knew exactly where one was: one was planted in a chair or on a bed. One wasn't multitasking. They'd called to give one their undivided attention, and one was on the phone doing the same.

Card, letter or call, it was a substantive and real connection and one and one's friends were working to maintain it. They were showing their appreciation and one returned it.

Of course, not all of one's connections were separated by time and distance. There was a connectedness in one's neighborhood. One knew one's neighbors. One knew their pets names. One's parents talked to the neighbors. One knew that Mrs. Westerly's mother-in-law was ill and that Mr. Ingersoll didn't like broccoli. We kids knew not to get out of line in front of Mrs. Ford's house because she spent her afternoons watching television in her sitting room and would always see whatever was going on outside and would tell on us in a minute. Mr. Armstrong loved to play dodgeball as much as we did and could be counted on to join us playing just about any sport that involved a ball. Hell, he'd even play frisbee with it. His wife could jump rope better than any of the girls in the neighborhood. They both would play tag and hide and seek at the drop of a hat.

People were connected. It was real. It was personal. It meant something, to us kids and, I think, to the grownups too. Those connections shaped our lives. They are what made a life be a life.

These days we have more ways than ever to be connected. I can join Twitter or Facebook and fire off a message to someone whom I've never met, and they to me. I get emails from people who address me by my first name as though they've known me for ages, and I have no idea of who they are. People who I don't know from "Adam's housecat" send letters asking me for money. One'd think I have some connection to those people.

These days we have more ways than ever before to form what I suppose are meant to simulate real connections, but are they? I wonder whether people, for all the appearance of having a connection of some sort, aren't actually less connected than they used to be. Back in the day, we didn't know what anyone's politics were, but we didn't care. We kids, of course didn't, but neither did our parents. Not even as young adults did we care. Even now, among the people with whom I have real and enduring personal connections, I don't care. I don't care because it's the appreciation, the respect one accords, not their politics, that builds the connection.

Unlike the connections I, likely many of you, made when we were young, the personal element -- having looked into someone's eyes, having head the emotion in their voice, seeing the exuberance and sincerity in their body language -- just isn't there. I think no matter what a "like" or reply or a whatever digital accolade one might give, one's brain knows it's but an ephemeral substitute for real connectedness. One doesn't build a connection to an avatar, email address, screen name, or ID, and I don't think, at the end of the day, one can fool one's mind into thinking one has.

 

[SeaGal]

Very nicely written, Xelor.

Descriptive of my childhood as well.

The thing I miss the most - texting has replaced the phone call. I deeply dislike communicating by text unless it's (numerical) info that needs to saved.

It might be said that the virtual world of electronic communication fosters a personal disconnectedness.

I rarely do Facebook, nor do I twitter, tweet or pass gas in public - however, I have friends who record their every move on social media. It must fill a empty spot in their lives somehow.

 

[Correll]

1. Increased hours of work, reduce free time for personal time.

2. Diversity also has a inhibiting effect on civil activity, see Bowling Alone.

3. Two income families also make it harder. There is not a homemaker to handle the details and arrangements.


I agree it is a problem.

 

[OldLady]

So, I'm nearly 60 years-old. I grew up in suburban-ish neighborhood. We'd visit family members down South a few times a year, and they'd come to D.C. to visit us a few times too. That's how I got to know my cousins and other relatives. My friends were the other kids who lived in the neighborhood, the kids I saw every summer at the shore who really were just kids from the neighborhood in which we had a summer place, and the kids at school.

I got older, and joined local little league, so did my siblings and we all developed new friendships. I joined the Scouts and made more friends. Momma and her lady friends called on one another, and we kids were often enough in tow, so those were other kids in the area who I grew to know. Later still, I changed schools and acquired more friends, and a few of them I knew from home or the shore, but most of them lived hundreds or thousands of miles from where I did.

From time to time, mostly when my school played a game against one of my friends schools, I'd run into some of the other kids whom I knew from home or the shore because their parents had sent them to rival schools. Every so many years, my parents would decide to take the family to "such and such" a far flung place where one of my classmates lived. That was always nice because I'd call my classmate and tell them we were coming to their town and their folks would talk to my folks and we'd coordinate a day when we all got together and did stuff together. I could be anything -- sightseeing, a day in the park, maybe my mate's parents would host a cookout for us and invite some of their local friends -- but it was always fun. The grownups would always get along, but sometimes they'd have enough in common to stay in touch even after we'd left.

Back then there was no email, no Twitter, Facebook or Internet. There was "snail mail" and the telephone, and, of course, trips to the shore, down South or some city our parents though we should visit. People called one another. I called my friends and acquaintances. They called me and my siblings. Everyone wrote from time to time. "Bobby's baseball team came in first place." "Meredith's pony took second place in her class." "We've moved. This is our new address. Can't wait to have you come stay with us." At the very least, everyone sent, Christmas and birthday cards, and no matter what sort of letter or card they sent, it always came with a couple photos.

It was always a great joy to get cards and letters. It was something new to talk about. It wasn't that folks' news was so grand. On the contrary, much of their news was really rather mundane. These were the goings on not of a person on a TV screen; this was what was going on with people whom we knew. They'd thought enough of me, or my siblings, or my parents to sit still for a few moments, collect their thoughts and write a short note. It felt good to know they cared enough to do that. A phone call was just as good. Back then then when one was on the phone, the person on the other end knew exactly where one was: one was planted in a chair or on a bed. One wasn't multitasking. They'd called to give one their undivided attention, and one was on the phone doing the same.

Card, letter or call, it was a substantive and real connection and one and one's friends were working to maintain it. They were showing their appreciation and one returned it.

Of course, not all of one's connections were separated by time and distance. There was a connectedness in one's neighborhood. One knew one's neighbors. One knew their pets names. One's parents talked to the neighbors. One knew that Mrs. Westerly's mother-in-law was ill and that Mr. Ingersoll didn't like broccoli. We kids knew not to get out of line in front of Mrs. Ford's house because she spent her afternoons watching television in her sitting room and would always see whatever was going on outside and would tell on us in a minute. Mr. Armstrong loved to play dodgeball as much as we did and could be counted on to join us playing just about any sport that involved a ball. Hell, he'd even play frisbee with it. His wife could jump rope better than any of the girls in the neighborhood. They both would play tag and hide and seek at the drop of a hat.

People were connected. It was real. It was personal. It meant something, to us kids and, I think, to the grownups too. Those connections shaped our lives. They are what made a life be a life.

These days we have more ways than ever to be connected. I can join Twitter or Facebook and fire off a message to someone whom I've never met, and they to me. I get emails from people who address me by my first name as though they've known me for ages, and I have no idea of who they are. People who I don't know from "Adam's housecat" send letters asking me for money. One'd think I have some connection to those people.

These days we have more ways than ever before to form what I suppose are meant to simulate real connections, but are they? I wonder whether people, for all the appearance of having a connection of some sort, aren't actually less connected than they used to be. Back in the day, we didn't know what anyone's politics were, but we didn't care. We kids, of course didn't, but neither did our parents. Not even as young adults did we care. Even now, among the people with whom I have real and enduring personal connections, I don't care. I don't care because it's the appreciation, the respect one accords, not their politics, that builds the connection.

Unlike the connections I, likely many of you, made when we were young, the personal element -- having looked into someone's eyes, having head the emotion in their voice, seeing the exuberance and sincerity in their body language -- just isn't there. I think no matter what a "like" or reply or a whatever digital accolade one might give, one's brain knows it's but an ephemeral substitute for real connectedness. One doesn't build a connection to an avatar, email address, screen name, or ID, and I don't think, at the end of the day, one can fool one's mind into thinking one has.

Lonely day? It will be alright.
The Armstrongs sound like a FUN couple.
I can't speak to how connected kids feel. I imagine (I hope) they will look back on their childhoods with nostalgic memories, too. But you're right the parents need to monitor the online time.

 

[Erinwltr]

So, I'm nearly 60 years-old. I grew up in suburban-ish neighborhood. We'd visit family members down South a few times a year, and they'd come to D.C. to visit us a few times too. That's how I got to know my cousins and other relatives. My friends were the other kids who lived in the neighborhood, the kids I saw every summer at the shore who really were just kids from the neighborhood in which we had a summer place, and the kids at school.

I got older, and joined local little league, so did my siblings and we all developed new friendships. I joined the Scouts and made more friends. Momma and her lady friends called on one another, and we kids were often enough in tow, so those were other kids in the area who I grew to know. Later still, I changed schools and acquired more friends, and a few of them I knew from home or the shore, but most of them lived hundreds or thousands of miles from where I did.

From time to time, mostly when my school played a game against one of my friends schools, I'd run into some of the other kids whom I knew from home or the shore because their parents had sent them to rival schools. Every so many years, my parents would decide to take the family to "such and such" a far flung place where one of my classmates lived. That was always nice because I'd call my classmate and tell them we were coming to their town and their folks would talk to my folks and we'd coordinate a day when we all got together and did stuff together. I could be anything -- sightseeing, a day in the park, maybe my mate's parents would host a cookout for us and invite some of their local friends -- but it was always fun. The grownups would always get along, but sometimes they'd have enough in common to stay in touch even after we'd left.

Back then there was no email, no Twitter, Facebook or Internet. There was "snail mail" and the telephone, and, of course, trips to the shore, down South or some city our parents though we should visit. People called one another. I called my friends and acquaintances. They called me and my siblings. Everyone wrote from time to time. "Bobby's baseball team came in first place." "Meredith's pony took second place in her class." "We've moved. This is our new address. Can't wait to have you come stay with us." At the very least, everyone sent, Christmas and birthday cards, and no matter what sort of letter or card they sent, it always came with a couple photos.

It was always a great joy to get cards and letters. It was something new to talk about. It wasn't that folks' news was so grand. On the contrary, much of their news was really rather mundane. These were the goings on not of a person on a TV screen; this was what was going on with people whom we knew. They'd thought enough of me, or my siblings, or my parents to sit still for a few moments, collect their thoughts and write a short note. It felt good to know they cared enough to do that. A phone call was just as good. Back then then when one was on the phone, the person on the other end knew exactly where one was: one was planted in a chair or on a bed. One wasn't multitasking. They'd called to give one their undivided attention, and one was on the phone doing the same.

Card, letter or call, it was a substantive and real connection and one and one's friends were working to maintain it. They were showing their appreciation and one returned it.

Of course, not all of one's connections were separated by time and distance. There was a connectedness in one's neighborhood. One knew one's neighbors. One knew their pets names. One's parents talked to the neighbors. One knew that Mrs. Westerly's mother-in-law was ill and that Mr. Ingersoll didn't like broccoli. We kids knew not to get out of line in front of Mrs. Ford's house because she spent her afternoons watching television in her sitting room and would always see whatever was going on outside and would tell on us in a minute. Mr. Armstrong loved to play dodgeball as much as we did and could be counted on to join us playing just about any sport that involved a ball. Hell, he'd even play frisbee with it. His wife could jump rope better than any of the girls in the neighborhood. They both would play tag and hide and seek at the drop of a hat.

People were connected. It was real. It was personal. It meant something, to us kids and, I think, to the grownups too. Those connections shaped our lives. They are what made a life be a life.

These days we have more ways than ever to be connected. I can join Twitter or Facebook and fire off a message to someone whom I've never met, and they to me. I get emails from people who address me by my first name as though they've known me for ages, and I have no idea of who they are. People who I don't know from "Adam's housecat" send letters asking me for money. One'd think I have some connection to those people.

These days we have more ways than ever before to form what I suppose are meant to simulate real connections, but are they? I wonder whether people, for all the appearance of having a connection of some sort, aren't actually less connected than they used to be. Back in the day, we didn't know what anyone's politics were, but we didn't care. We kids, of course didn't, but neither did our parents. Not even as young adults did we care. Even now, among the people with whom I have real and enduring personal connections, I don't care. I don't care because it's the appreciation, the respect one accords, not their politics, that builds the connection.

Unlike the connections I, likely many of you, made when we were young, the personal element -- having looked into someone's eyes, having head the emotion in their voice, seeing the exuberance and sincerity in their body language -- just isn't there. I think no matter what a "like" or reply or a whatever digital accolade one might give, one's brain knows it's but an ephemeral substitute for real connectedness. One doesn't build a connection to an avatar, email address, screen name, or ID, and I don't think, at the end of the day, one can fool one's mind into thinking one has.

Gonna book mark this and come back later.

 

[shockedcanadian]

Multitude of reasons really, ultimately, alot of it comes down to the internet and convenience. Worse, people look at others as "transactions", "what can I get from this person".

It will not improve, you just have to adapt or find like minded organizations who share a common interest. People have lost the "spirit" of living. The intangibles, appreciation ad wonderment of humanity.

 

[usmbguest5318]

So, I'm nearly 60 years-old. I grew up in suburban-ish neighborhood. We'd visit family members down South a few times a year, and they'd come to D.C. to visit us a few times too. That's how I got to know my cousins and other relatives. My friends were the other kids who lived in the neighborhood, the kids I saw every summer at the shore who really were just kids from the neighborhood in which we had a summer place, and the kids at school.

I got older, and joined local little league, so did my siblings and we all developed new friendships. I joined the Scouts and made more friends. Momma and her lady friends called on one another, and we kids were often enough in tow, so those were other kids in the area who I grew to know. Later still, I changed schools and acquired more friends, and a few of them I knew from home or the shore, but most of them lived hundreds or thousands of miles from where I did.

From time to time, mostly when my school played a game against one of my friends schools, I'd run into some of the other kids whom I knew from home or the shore because their parents had sent them to rival schools. Every so many years, my parents would decide to take the family to "such and such" a far flung place where one of my classmates lived. That was always nice because I'd call my classmate and tell them we were coming to their town and their folks would talk to my folks and we'd coordinate a day when we all got together and did stuff together. I could be anything -- sightseeing, a day in the park, maybe my mate's parents would host a cookout for us and invite some of their local friends -- but it was always fun. The grownups would always get along, but sometimes they'd have enough in common to stay in touch even after we'd left.

Back then there was no email, no Twitter, Facebook or Internet. There was "snail mail" and the telephone, and, of course, trips to the shore, down South or some city our parents though we should visit. People called one another. I called my friends and acquaintances. They called me and my siblings. Everyone wrote from time to time. "Bobby's baseball team came in first place." "Meredith's pony took second place in her class." "We've moved. This is our new address. Can't wait to have you come stay with us." At the very least, everyone sent, Christmas and birthday cards, and no matter what sort of letter or card they sent, it always came with a couple photos.

It was always a great joy to get cards and letters. It was something new to talk about. It wasn't that folks' news was so grand. On the contrary, much of their news was really rather mundane. These were the goings on not of a person on a TV screen; this was what was going on with people whom we knew. They'd thought enough of me, or my siblings, or my parents to sit still for a few moments, collect their thoughts and write a short note. It felt good to know they cared enough to do that. A phone call was just as good. Back then then when one was on the phone, the person on the other end knew exactly where one was: one was planted in a chair or on a bed. One wasn't multitasking. They'd called to give one their undivided attention, and one was on the phone doing the same.

Card, letter or call, it was a substantive and real connection and one and one's friends were working to maintain it. They were showing their appreciation and one returned it.

Of course, not all of one's connections were separated by time and distance. There was a connectedness in one's neighborhood. One knew one's neighbors. One knew their pets names. One's parents talked to the neighbors. One knew that Mrs. Westerly's mother-in-law was ill and that Mr. Ingersoll didn't like broccoli. We kids knew not to get out of line in front of Mrs. Ford's house because she spent her afternoons watching television in her sitting room and would always see whatever was going on outside and would tell on us in a minute. Mr. Armstrong loved to play dodgeball as much as we did and could be counted on to join us playing just about any sport that involved a ball. Hell, he'd even play frisbee with it. His wife could jump rope better than any of the girls in the neighborhood. They both would play tag and hide and seek at the drop of a hat.

People were connected. It was real. It was personal. It meant something, to us kids and, I think, to the grownups too. Those connections shaped our lives. They are what made a life be a life.

These days we have more ways than ever to be connected. I can join Twitter or Facebook and fire off a message to someone whom I've never met, and they to me. I get emails from people who address me by my first name as though they've known me for ages, and I have no idea of who they are. People who I don't know from "Adam's housecat" send letters asking me for money. One'd think I have some connection to those people.

These days we have more ways than ever before to form what I suppose are meant to simulate real connections, but are they? I wonder whether people, for all the appearance of having a connection of some sort, aren't actually less connected than they used to be. Back in the day, we didn't know what anyone's politics were, but we didn't care. We kids, of course didn't, but neither did our parents. Not even as young adults did we care. Even now, among the people with whom I have real and enduring personal connections, I don't care. I don't care because it's the appreciation, the respect one accords, not their politics, that builds the connection.

Unlike the connections I, likely many of you, made when we were young, the personal element -- having looked into someone's eyes, having head the emotion in their voice, seeing the exuberance and sincerity in their body language -- just isn't there. I think no matter what a "like" or reply or a whatever digital accolade one might give, one's brain knows it's but an ephemeral substitute for real connectedness. One doesn't build a connection to an avatar, email address, screen name, or ID, and I don't think, at the end of the day, one can fool one's mind into thinking one has.

Lonely day? It will be alright.
The Armstrongs sound like a FUN couple.
I can't speak to how connected kids feel. I imagine (I hope) they will look back on their childhoods with nostalgic memories, too. But you're right the parents need to monitor the online time.

Lonely day?

No. I was just reflecting on a conversation a friend and I had about the Facebook thing and how for as much as we have more ways than ever to connect with other individuals, as a society we see less connected rather than more connected.

The Armstrongs sound like a FUN couple.

They are, though they're in their dotage now. Still very nice, but not nearly so active. If they see us, though, they'll still beckon us to come sit and have a cocktail and some cake or cookies and play cards, sing songs at the piano or play a table game. They're a lovely old couple.

 

[usmbguest5318]

Very nicely written, Xelor.

Descriptive of my childhood as well.

The thing I miss the most - texting has replaced the phone call. I deeply dislike communicating by text unless it's (numerical) info that needs to saved.

It might be said that the virtual world of electronic communication fosters a personal disconnectedness.

I rarely do Facebook, nor do I twitter, tweet or pass gas in public - however, I have friends who record their every move on social media. It must fill a empty spot in their lives somehow.

Very nicely written, Xelor.

Thank you.

It might be said that the virtual world of electronic communication fosters a personal disconnectedness.

That's precisely the irony that struck me. I wish I'd come up with that turn of phrase; I'd have used it as the thread title. Thank you for coining it for me/us. It really captures well the theme of what I was getting at.

 

[Marion Morrison]

So, I'm nearly 60 years-old. I grew up in suburban-ish neighborhood. We'd visit family members down South a few times a year, and they'd come to D.C. to visit us a few times too. That's how I got to know my cousins and other relatives. My friends were the other kids who lived in the neighborhood, the kids I saw every summer at the shore who really were just kids from the neighborhood in which we had a summer place, and the kids at school.

I got older, and joined local little league, so did my siblings and we all developed new friendships. I joined the Scouts and made more friends. Momma and her lady friends called on one another, and we kids were often enough in tow, so those were other kids in the area who I grew to know. Later still, I changed schools and acquired more friends, and a few of them I knew from home or the shore, but most of them lived hundreds or thousands of miles from where I did.

From time to time, mostly when my school played a game against one of my friends schools, I'd run into some of the other kids whom I knew from home or the shore because their parents had sent them to rival schools. Every so many years, my parents would decide to take the family to "such and such" a far flung place where one of my classmates lived. That was always nice because I'd call my classmate and tell them we were coming to their town and their folks would talk to my folks and we'd coordinate a day when we all got together and did stuff together. I could be anything -- sightseeing, a day in the park, maybe my mate's parents would host a cookout for us and invite some of their local friends -- but it was always fun. The grownups would always get along, but sometimes they'd have enough in common to stay in touch even after we'd left.

Back then there was no email, no Twitter, Facebook or Internet. There was "snail mail" and the telephone, and, of course, trips to the shore, down South or some city our parents though we should visit. People called one another. I called my friends and acquaintances. They called me and my siblings. Everyone wrote from time to time. "Bobby's baseball team came in first place." "Meredith's pony took second place in her class." "We've moved. This is our new address. Can't wait to have you come stay with us." At the very least, everyone sent, Christmas and birthday cards, and no matter what sort of letter or card they sent, it always came with a couple photos.

It was always a great joy to get cards and letters. It was something new to talk about. It wasn't that folks' news was so grand. On the contrary, much of their news was really rather mundane. These were the goings on not of a person on a TV screen; this was what was going on with people whom we knew. They'd thought enough of me, or my siblings, or my parents to sit still for a few moments, collect their thoughts and write a short note. It felt good to know they cared enough to do that. A phone call was just as good. Back then then when one was on the phone, the person on the other end knew exactly where one was: one was planted in a chair or on a bed. One wasn't multitasking. They'd called to give one their undivided attention, and one was on the phone doing the same.

Card, letter or call, it was a substantive and real connection and one and one's friends were working to maintain it. They were showing their appreciation and one returned it.

Of course, not all of one's connections were separated by time and distance. There was a connectedness in one's neighborhood. One knew one's neighbors. One knew their pets names. One's parents talked to the neighbors. One knew that Mrs. Westerly's mother-in-law was ill and that Mr. Ingersoll didn't like broccoli. We kids knew not to get out of line in front of Mrs. Ford's house because she spent her afternoons watching television in her sitting room and would always see whatever was going on outside and would tell on us in a minute. Mr. Armstrong loved to play dodgeball as much as we did and could be counted on to join us playing just about any sport that involved a ball. Hell, he'd even play frisbee with it. His wife could jump rope better than any of the girls in the neighborhood. They both would play tag and hide and seek at the drop of a hat.

People were connected. It was real. It was personal. It meant something, to us kids and, I think, to the grownups too. Those connections shaped our lives. They are what made a life be a life.

These days we have more ways than ever to be connected. I can join Twitter or Facebook and fire off a message to someone whom I've never met, and they to me. I get emails from people who address me by my first name as though they've known me for ages, and I have no idea of who they are. People who I don't know from "Adam's housecat" send letters asking me for money. One'd think I have some connection to those people.

These days we have more ways than ever before to form what I suppose are meant to simulate real connections, but are they? I wonder whether people, for all the appearance of having a connection of some sort, aren't actually less connected than they used to be. Back in the day, we didn't know what anyone's politics were, but we didn't care. We kids, of course didn't, but neither did our parents. Not even as young adults did we care. Even now, among the people with whom I have real and enduring personal connections, I don't care. I don't care because it's the appreciation, the respect one accords, not their politics, that builds the connection.

Unlike the connections I, likely many of you, made when we were young, the personal element -- having looked into someone's eyes, having head the emotion in their voice, seeing the exuberance and sincerity in their body language -- just isn't there. I think no matter what a "like" or reply or a whatever digital accolade one might give, one's brain knows it's but an ephemeral substitute for real connectedness. One doesn't build a connection to an avatar, email address, screen name, or ID, and I don't think, at the end of the day, one can fool one's mind into thinking one has.

Excellent OP, sir! People are connecting with a programmed device's translation of other people. Humans don't need that, really. It strips away from humanity.

 

[usmbguest5318]

So, I'm nearly 60 years-old. I grew up in suburban-ish neighborhood. We'd visit family members down South a few times a year, and they'd come to D.C. to visit us a few times too. That's how I got to know my cousins and other relatives. My friends were the other kids who lived in the neighborhood, the kids I saw every summer at the shore who really were just kids from the neighborhood in which we had a summer place, and the kids at school.

I got older, and joined local little league, so did my siblings and we all developed new friendships. I joined the Scouts and made more friends. Momma and her lady friends called on one another, and we kids were often enough in tow, so those were other kids in the area who I grew to know. Later still, I changed schools and acquired more friends, and a few of them I knew from home or the shore, but most of them lived hundreds or thousands of miles from where I did.

From time to time, mostly when my school played a game against one of my friends schools, I'd run into some of the other kids whom I knew from home or the shore because their parents had sent them to rival schools. Every so many years, my parents would decide to take the family to "such and such" a far flung place where one of my classmates lived. That was always nice because I'd call my classmate and tell them we were coming to their town and their folks would talk to my folks and we'd coordinate a day when we all got together and did stuff together. I could be anything -- sightseeing, a day in the park, maybe my mate's parents would host a cookout for us and invite some of their local friends -- but it was always fun. The grownups would always get along, but sometimes they'd have enough in common to stay in touch even after we'd left.

Back then there was no email, no Twitter, Facebook or Internet. There was "snail mail" and the telephone, and, of course, trips to the shore, down South or some city our parents though we should visit. People called one another. I called my friends and acquaintances. They called me and my siblings. Everyone wrote from time to time. "Bobby's baseball team came in first place." "Meredith's pony took second place in her class." "We've moved. This is our new address. Can't wait to have you come stay with us." At the very least, everyone sent, Christmas and birthday cards, and no matter what sort of letter or card they sent, it always came with a couple photos.

It was always a great joy to get cards and letters. It was something new to talk about. It wasn't that folks' news was so grand. On the contrary, much of their news was really rather mundane. These were the goings on not of a person on a TV screen; this was what was going on with people whom we knew. They'd thought enough of me, or my siblings, or my parents to sit still for a few moments, collect their thoughts and write a short note. It felt good to know they cared enough to do that. A phone call was just as good. Back then then when one was on the phone, the person on the other end knew exactly where one was: one was planted in a chair or on a bed. One wasn't multitasking. They'd called to give one their undivided attention, and one was on the phone doing the same.

Card, letter or call, it was a substantive and real connection and one and one's friends were working to maintain it. They were showing their appreciation and one returned it.

Of course, not all of one's connections were separated by time and distance. There was a connectedness in one's neighborhood. One knew one's neighbors. One knew their pets names. One's parents talked to the neighbors. One knew that Mrs. Westerly's mother-in-law was ill and that Mr. Ingersoll didn't like broccoli. We kids knew not to get out of line in front of Mrs. Ford's house because she spent her afternoons watching television in her sitting room and would always see whatever was going on outside and would tell on us in a minute. Mr. Armstrong loved to play dodgeball as much as we did and could be counted on to join us playing just about any sport that involved a ball. Hell, he'd even play frisbee with it. His wife could jump rope better than any of the girls in the neighborhood. They both would play tag and hide and seek at the drop of a hat.

People were connected. It was real. It was personal. It meant something, to us kids and, I think, to the grownups too. Those connections shaped our lives. They are what made a life be a life.

These days we have more ways than ever to be connected. I can join Twitter or Facebook and fire off a message to someone whom I've never met, and they to me. I get emails from people who address me by my first name as though they've known me for ages, and I have no idea of who they are. People who I don't know from "Adam's housecat" send letters asking me for money. One'd think I have some connection to those people.

These days we have more ways than ever before to form what I suppose are meant to simulate real connections, but are they? I wonder whether people, for all the appearance of having a connection of some sort, aren't actually less connected than they used to be. Back in the day, we didn't know what anyone's politics were, but we didn't care. We kids, of course didn't, but neither did our parents. Not even as young adults did we care. Even now, among the people with whom I have real and enduring personal connections, I don't care. I don't care because it's the appreciation, the respect one accords, not their politics, that builds the connection.

Unlike the connections I, likely many of you, made when we were young, the personal element -- having looked into someone's eyes, having head the emotion in their voice, seeing the exuberance and sincerity in their body language -- just isn't there. I think no matter what a "like" or reply or a whatever digital accolade one might give, one's brain knows it's but an ephemeral substitute for real connectedness. One doesn't build a connection to an avatar, email address, screen name, or ID, and I don't think, at the end of the day, one can fool one's mind into thinking one has.

Excellent OP, sir! People are connecting with a programmed device's translation of other people. Humans don't need that, really. It strips away from humanity.

Excellent OP, sir!

Thank you.

 

[usmbguest5318]

So, I'm nearly 60 years-old. I grew up in suburban-ish neighborhood. We'd visit family members down South a few times a year, and they'd come to D.C. to visit us a few times too. That's how I got to know my cousins and other relatives. My friends were the other kids who lived in the neighborhood, the kids I saw every summer at the shore who really were just kids from the neighborhood in which we had a summer place, and the kids at school.

I got older, and joined local little league, so did my siblings and we all developed new friendships. I joined the Scouts and made more friends. Momma and her lady friends called on one another, and we kids were often enough in tow, so those were other kids in the area who I grew to know. Later still, I changed schools and acquired more friends, and a few of them I knew from home or the shore, but most of them lived hundreds or thousands of miles from where I did.

From time to time, mostly when my school played a game against one of my friends schools, I'd run into some of the other kids whom I knew from home or the shore because their parents had sent them to rival schools. Every so many years, my parents would decide to take the family to "such and such" a far flung place where one of my classmates lived. That was always nice because I'd call my classmate and tell them we were coming to their town and their folks would talk to my folks and we'd coordinate a day when we all got together and did stuff together. I could be anything -- sightseeing, a day in the park, maybe my mate's parents would host a cookout for us and invite some of their local friends -- but it was always fun. The grownups would always get along, but sometimes they'd have enough in common to stay in touch even after we'd left.

Back then there was no email, no Twitter, Facebook or Internet. There was "snail mail" and the telephone, and, of course, trips to the shore, down South or some city our parents though we should visit. People called one another. I called my friends and acquaintances. They called me and my siblings. Everyone wrote from time to time. "Bobby's baseball team came in first place." "Meredith's pony took second place in her class." "We've moved. This is our new address. Can't wait to have you come stay with us." At the very least, everyone sent, Christmas and birthday cards, and no matter what sort of letter or card they sent, it always came with a couple photos.

It was always a great joy to get cards and letters. It was something new to talk about. It wasn't that folks' news was so grand. On the contrary, much of their news was really rather mundane. These were the goings on not of a person on a TV screen; this was what was going on with people whom we knew. They'd thought enough of me, or my siblings, or my parents to sit still for a few moments, collect their thoughts and write a short note. It felt good to know they cared enough to do that. A phone call was just as good. Back then then when one was on the phone, the person on the other end knew exactly where one was: one was planted in a chair or on a bed. One wasn't multitasking. They'd called to give one their undivided attention, and one was on the phone doing the same.

Card, letter or call, it was a substantive and real connection and one and one's friends were working to maintain it. They were showing their appreciation and one returned it.

Of course, not all of one's connections were separated by time and distance. There was a connectedness in one's neighborhood. One knew one's neighbors. One knew their pets names. One's parents talked to the neighbors. One knew that Mrs. Westerly's mother-in-law was ill and that Mr. Ingersoll didn't like broccoli. We kids knew not to get out of line in front of Mrs. Ford's house because she spent her afternoons watching television in her sitting room and would always see whatever was going on outside and would tell on us in a minute. Mr. Armstrong loved to play dodgeball as much as we did and could be counted on to join us playing just about any sport that involved a ball. Hell, he'd even play frisbee with it. His wife could jump rope better than any of the girls in the neighborhood. They both would play tag and hide and seek at the drop of a hat.

People were connected. It was real. It was personal. It meant something, to us kids and, I think, to the grownups too. Those connections shaped our lives. They are what made a life be a life.

These days we have more ways than ever to be connected. I can join Twitter or Facebook and fire off a message to someone whom I've never met, and they to me. I get emails from people who address me by my first name as though they've known me for ages, and I have no idea of who they are. People who I don't know from "Adam's housecat" send letters asking me for money. One'd think I have some connection to those people.

These days we have more ways than ever before to form what I suppose are meant to simulate real connections, but are they? I wonder whether people, for all the appearance of having a connection of some sort, aren't actually less connected than they used to be. Back in the day, we didn't know what anyone's politics were, but we didn't care. We kids, of course didn't, but neither did our parents. Not even as young adults did we care. Even now, among the people with whom I have real and enduring personal connections, I don't care. I don't care because it's the appreciation, the respect one accords, not their politics, that builds the connection.

Unlike the connections I, likely many of you, made when we were young, the personal element -- having looked into someone's eyes, having head the emotion in their voice, seeing the exuberance and sincerity in their body language -- just isn't there. I think no matter what a "like" or reply or a whatever digital accolade one might give, one's brain knows it's but an ephemeral substitute for real connectedness. One doesn't build a connection to an avatar, email address, screen name, or ID, and I don't think, at the end of the day, one can fool one's mind into thinking one has.

Excellent OP, sir! People are connecting with a programmed device's translation of other people. Humans don't need that, really. It strips away from humanity.

Humans don't need that, really.

I think so too.

 

[Marion Morrison]

What about recognizing someone's handwriting who sent you a card or letter?

 

[Moonglow]

I started working at fourteen so I never had much time to connect until I had to stop working at 56... So I have the time but the people are gone...

 

[Marion Morrison]

What about getting everyone together for an early-morning baseball game on Saturday?

(A lot of my friends I grew up with still do this)

It's in a league, now, though.

 

[usmbguest5318]

What about recognizing someone's handwriting who sent you a card or letter?

That is yet another fine example of a connection. It seems like such a simple thing, but it's a piece of that person, their personality.

I don't think I pay much attention to folks' handwriting while they're alive, but when I look at some of the letters I got from my grandparents and other folks who've passed, to be sure, I see things in their handwriting that reminds me of some aspect of the person they were.

I see Granny's "scatterbrains" in her confused scrawls. I see Dad's highly ordered sensibilities and attention to detail in his "classroom" perfect penmanship and careful spacing, yet if a stranger were to see his writing, they wouldn't be able to predict much of anything about him, so antiseptically perfect was his handwriting. And that's how dad was; he was a very private person. Tons of people knew him and respected him, which is as he wanted it, but only a score or so knew him well, and half of them were his immediate family members. Were I and my siblings to describe Dad and most of the other folks who knew him to do the same, an outside observer would get the sense of hearing about a painting that's complete and one that's clearly the start of the completed one, but that's not finished.

But to your point, yes, handwriting is another means of forming a connection.