Adjusting the Focus

The program I use to write these silly essays on my computer has a setting for viewing labeled, “Focus.” When selected, it removes all other items and icons leaving only a white screen littered by an increasing amount of black letters in what I hope to be a logical and pleasing arrangement.

It is a widely held belief that men cannot multi-task and are easily distracted. The combination of the two in one package is one of God’s great jokes. I was having a conversation a while back about this very subject with my daughter in the farm kitchen. I was carrying on about how most men can become easily distracted when, in mid-sentence, I stopped to read the open page of a newspaper that was directly beneath me on the counter. She smiled at me and shook her head in disbelief.

I was by myself in my office for the better part of two weeks last month when Kathy, my capable co-worker, took some well-earned time off. I would no sooner get started on one thing than another thing demanded my attention. Shifting my attention to the new immediate matter-at-hand I became interrupted by the phone, then the mail, then someone coming in, then a desperate dash to the bathroom. When I returned refreshed, I dove into the pile of papers only to find that it had somehow become deeper.

I try to keep a clean and tidy workspace, and that includes my writing table in my bedroom. I can confidently report that the old library table is just shy of 28 inches deep and a shade more than 48 inches wide. That’s kind of like saying, “twenty after two,” instead of, “two-eighteen,” when asked for the time. It’s close enough for most occasions.

Sitting on the table is an hourglass that empties itself every half-hour. It occupies part of a corner shared by a manual typewriter with a hat. I don’t know that the hat is the right accessory for the typewriter but it does keep the dust off. I keep the typewriter nearby to remind me of the past.  The hat is for when I want to look like a serious writer, or one who is not taking himself too seriously.

In the other corner is a hard cover of Strunk & White’s, The Elements of Style (Third Edition). I keep this close by so I don’t stray too far from the accepted path. On top of that are some small books that need to be completed in this lifetime.

The first one is titled, Dad, Share Your Life With Me . . .  As I glance at the randomly opened page that says, “Tell another memory about a parade,”  I think about the red Chevette that I drove in the high school homecoming parade my senior year when I got stopped by the police.

Another little book called, Grandpa, Tell Me Your Memories . . . has a page asking, “Were you ever chased by some animals?” That reminds me of the time I jumped through the open window of the family station wagon when a Siberian husky was closing in on me at an egg farm.

The third one, titled, “A Father’s Legacy, Your Life Story In Your Own Words, asks on one page, “What did you want to be when you grew up?”  Certainly, not an insurance agent.”

In the middle of the table, directly in front of me is my computer, where I try and write something worth reading. Now where was I?