Seek and Ye Shall (Maybe Not) Find

I got a new laptop a few weeks ago, and, in general, I'm really happy with it. It's a Dell (from BestBuy), and it boots up and shuts down far more quickly than my previous Dell, which seemed always reluctant to awaken (reminding me of myself, an adolescent, years ago on Saturday mornings--hell, on any morning, really) and to shut down (ditto re: my adolescent self).

But it's been great ... for the most part.

The only problem I've had has been My Own Damn Fault. When I transferred files from my old one, I seemed to have neglected a few things.

For example, today ...

Someone had posted a story online about the summer beach home once used by writer John O'Hara (whose complete works I read a few years ago--and about whom I wrote a monograph for Kindle Direct, Do You Like It Here? Inside the Worlds of John O'Hara--A Brief Biographical Memoir). (Link to book.) The O'Haras would stay there for many summers.

I went to the realtor's site online, found about ten great pictures of the place and its surroundings, downloaded them ... and then ... could not for the life of me find my (many) folders of images of O'Hara and his world.

After about a half-hour of teeth-gnashing and uttering grievous execrations, I realized the obvious: I'd somehow not copied them onto my new hard drive.

No problem.

I am a psychopathic backer-upper of computer files.

So in a matter of moments I had them where I wanted them, added the new images, added those images to the PowerPoint presentation (which I've delivered to two different audiences--Hiram College and the local library here in Hudson, Ohio ... who knows if I'll give an O'Hara talk again, but I'm ready if I do!).

So, my blood pressure has diminished. My attitude has sweetened (insofar as that is possible these Dark Days).

And I'm now somewhat recovered from what happened yesterday at a Father's Day dinner with my wife (Joyce), son, daughter-in-law, grandsons.

When Joyce and I were waiting for the others at the restaurant table (at one of our favorite places, The Pufferbelly, an old train station, in Kent, Ohio), our waitress was touched by our Father's Day plans and asked Joyce if I were her father.

I laughed.

And cried.