Your Apple Ain't No Lemon

Grandpa's First Smartphone?

My dad is 95 years old.?

Despite age, Pops is doing well. He drives like a youngster. I believe he drives better than me. I’m old too, by the way. Each morning, he negotiates the daily newspaper’s crossword puzzles. To plagiarize a piece of dialogue from “Inglorious Bastards” spoken by Brad Pitt,,, my dad gives the crossword puzzles, ”What-for.”

It’s a rare occasion when he asks for my help. “Whip It band?” Dad yelled from the front room.

"Devo!” I proudly shouted back.

Dad doesn't know a single thing about this 80’s new-wave rock band that wore flower pots for hats, but he’s a grammar buff and a spelling whiz. When my spelling reaches the outer limits, thus rendering spellcheck impotent I holler the bothersome word from my room to the living room. Without pausing Jeopardy, Dad effortlessly hollers each letter back to me.? (I dig the way he does it)

?

Buy one, get one free.? This was the familiar prompt that brought Dad his first smartphone. BOGO is never really true, but it was time and I wanted to do it.?

The fun began immediately as I witnessed him murder the touchscreen with his fat fingers, poking, and poking harder, switching fingers as if that was the solution. “It doesn't work. Watch,” he said while demonstrating how his taps were being ignored. “You may have gotten a lemon. Can you get your money back?” He asked.

I rescued the phone from his grasp and confidently said.?

“I assure you, your Apple aint no Lemon!”

I continued, “Dad, you’re punching the phone like a baby gorilla! Let me show you.” I warned Dad about his gorilla-tactics, underscoring how delicacy is a friend of the touchscreen. The old man turned and walked away, new toy in hand. This was only the beginning.

Convinced that his smartphone was surely a lemon, “I don’t know if I want this phone, I missed text messages, and two people said they called today. I never heard this thing ring, and I never heard that chirping sound we picked for my messages!” In what would become a regular thing for us, we stood together side-by-side, touching shoulders with a slight forward lean, looking at the screen. A quick inspection revealed the tiny switch was toggled to silent mode, plus the volume was turned down. A quick tutorial about sound settings, and then he backtracked to the living room.

?I watched as he slowly walked away, not looking up from his phone. He sat and groaned and scratched his head. He fondled the device like a gorilla sizing up a twig. Because Dad’s fingers are huge and crooked, we postponed the fingerprint security setting and opted for a PIN code instead. 1928. The year Dad was born.?

Pop’s first-ever attempt to use the phone’s camera was sitcom-worthy. He aimed the phone at his freshly cleaned and shiny car then tapped the camera icon, suddenly his big fat face was staring right back at him. He said the unexpected close-up of his mug not only startled him but forced him to weigh the pros and cons of pairing himself with today’s tech. Again he asked if it was too late for me to get a refund because this phone was a lemon.?

I’m not gonna lie, his tirade prompted a hearty laugh from me that was contagious, and soon he started to laugh. The laughter subsided as we assumed our shoulder-to-shoulder stance, I pointed to then tapped the tiny camera icon thus rectifying the spooky backward mugshot. Again he wandered back to his chair scratching his head.?

Grasping all the tasks and nuances of a smartphone wasn’t going to be easy and I knew this going in.? The learning curve was eclipsing the Gateway Arch. A robust fact began to emerge; I was a smartphone guru. As gurus do, I taught and I taught some more. Dad absorbed what he could. I was the father and he was the son. Problems became teaching moments. We huddled and I realized that it had been years since me and dad spent this much quality time together.? Back in the day, we’d play football in the street, basketball in the driveway, or baseball at the schoolyard, it didn’t matter what the sporting season was, Dad was always there, teaching me to become a varsity standout.

Bluetooth may have saved the day because Dad loves his music. He questioned how the problematic device could be tamed enough to actually play Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Connie Francis, and the rest. He wanted so much to believe that he could hear any song at any time in his car, his bathroom, the porch, or his easy chair. I activated Bluetooth for his car and his Beats by Dre portable speaker. All 92-year-olds should have Beats by Dre. (Hey, it was BOGO.) We bonded like Elmer’s Glue.

The new smartphone brought us together in old ways. It was a thought that threatened to bring a tear to my eye, my sentimental moment ended abruptly as Dad came at me with the next frustrating issue. The next problem was partially my fault as I didn’t properly configure his home screen. Extra irritated, he voiced his complaint.?

“What is this white box on my screen? It’s in my way! I can’t get rid of it, it comes and it goes. It’s there for no reason, what is it? And how do I get rid of it? Is it too late to get your money back? Who needs this white box on their phone?!” he demanded, finally stopping to catch his breath.?

We held the phone, shoulder-to-shoulder, a slight lean forward, I examined the bothersome white box on the screen. “Dad,” I said emphatically, “That’s Google!”

The learning continues...

Rocky T

Upland CA

poking, and poking harder, switching fingers as if that was the solution. “It doesn't work. Watch,” he said while demonstrating how his taps were being ignored. “You may have gotten a lemon. Can you get your money back?” He asked.

I rescued the phone from his grasp and confidently said.?

“I assure you, your Apple aint no Lemon!”

I continued, “Dad, you’re punching the phone like a baby gorilla! Let me show you.” I warned Dad about his gorilla-tactics, underscoring how delicacy is a friend of the touchscreen. The old man turned and walked away, new toy in hand. This was only the beginning.

Convinced that his smartphone was surely a lemon, “I don’t know if I want this phone, I missed text messages, and two people said they called today. I never heard this thing ring, and I never heard that chirping sound we picked for my messages!” In what would become a regular thing for us, we stood together side-by-side, touching shoulders with a slight forward lean, looking at the screen. A quick inspection revealed the tiny switch was toggled to silent mode, plus the volume was turned down. A quick tutorial about sound settings, and then he backtracked to the living room.

?I watched as he slowly walked away, not looking up from his phone. He sat and groaned and scratched his head. He fondled the device like a gorilla sizing up a twig. Because Dad’s fingers are huge and crooked, we postponed the fingerprint security setting and opted for a PIN code instead. 1928. The year Dad was born.?

Pop’s first-ever attempt to use the phone’s camera was sitcom-worthy. He aimed the phone at his freshly cleaned and shiny car then tapped the camera icon, suddenly his big fat face was staring right back at him. He said the unexpected close-up of his mug not only startled him but forced him to weigh the pros and cons of pairing himself with today’s tech. Again he asked if it was too late for me to get a refund because this phone was a lemon.?

I’m not gonna lie, his tirade prompted a hearty laugh from me that was contagious, and soon he started to laugh. The laughter subsided as we assumed our shoulder-to-shoulder stance, I pointed to, then tapped the tiny camera icon thus rectifying the spooky backward mugshot. Again he wandered back to his chair scratching his head.?

Grasping all the tasks and nuances of a smartphone wasn’t going to be easy, I knew this going in.? The learning curve was eclipsing the Gateway Arch. A robust fact began to emerge; I was a smartphone guru. As gurus do, I taught and I taught some more. Dad absorbed what he could. I was the father and he was the son. Problems became teaching moments. We huddled and I realized that it had been years since me and Dad spent this much quality time together.??

Back in the day, we’d play football in the street, basketball in the driveway, or baseball at the schoolyard, it didn’t matter what the sporting season was, Dad was always there, teaching me to become a varsity standout.

Bluetooth may have saved the day because Dad loves his music. He questioned how the problematic device could actually play Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Connie Francis, and the rest. He wanted so much to believe that he could hear any song at any time in his car, his bathroom, the porch, or his easy chair. I activated Bluetooth for his car and his Beats by Dre portable speaker. All 92-year-olds should have Beats by Dre. (Hey, it was BOGO.) We continued to bond like Elmer’s Glue.

The new smartphone brought us together in old ways. It was a thought that threatened to bring a tear to my eye, my sentimental moment ended abruptly as Dad came at me with his next frustrating issue. This particular problem was partially my fault as I didn’t properly configure his home screen.?

Extra irritated, he voiced his complaint.?

“What is this white box on my screen? It’s in my way! I can’t get rid of it, it comes and it goes. It’s there for no reason, what is it? And how do I get rid of it? Is it too late to get your money back? Who needs this white box on their phone?!” he demanded, finally stopping to catch his breath.?

We held the phone, shoulder-to-shoulder, a slight lean forward, I examined the bothersome white box on the screen. “Dad,” I said emphatically, “That’s Google!”

The learning continues...

Rocky T

Upland CA??