Tag Archive for: Evelyn David

Save My Show

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He had a boyish charm, a sweet smile, and a terrible sense of fashion. Some found him boring.

Me? I fell in love with Fred Rogers the first time I met him in the neighborhood.

Which is why I was so upset when I heard that PBS will stop transmitting Mister Rogers Neighborhood as part of its daily syndicated lineup beginning in September. Local public television stations can still choose to broadcast the program daily, but they are less likely to do so without the program being included in PBS’s syndicated feed.

Kids lose.

Unlike Sesame Street which never captured the attention of any of my children, low-tech Mister Rogers with his trolley and hand puppets was must-see tv for years. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like PBS was the only station that was programmed on our television. My kids watched the same crap that everyone else, including Mister Rogers, decried. Violent cartoons? Sure. Stupid sitcoms. Bring ‘em on. World Wrestling Federation? Sigh, yes. I confess, I even took two of my kids to a rumble at the County Center (and boy, was I the coolest Mom for at least three days).

But Mister Rogers was the perfect counterpoint. With his familiar routines and comforting songs, he spoke to my children and taught them more than all the clever 30-second educational scenes that flashed on Sesame Street. Mister Rogers reassured them that “the very same people who are good sometimes; are the very same people who are bad sometimes.” He taught them that make-believe is a land you should visit everyday. He made it clear to each child, “It’s you I like; It’s not the things you wear. It’s not the way you do your hair, But it’s you I like.” He wanted children to love themselves and others.

Son number two adored Fred Rogers. For his fourth birthday he wanted nothing more than a zip-up sweater like Mister Rogers wore every day. Well, that’s a slight exaggeration. He also wanted wrestling action figures, a new baseball mitt, a bike, and an assortment of other toys that had zero educational value. But, he did desperately want that sweater. I searched high and low for a mini-Rogers sweater and the look of sheer delight on my son’s face when he opened that present is still vivid all these years later. He promptly ran to get his dress shoes and faithfully re-enacted the shoe swap that Fred Rogers did at the start of each show, then zipped up his new sweater with a flourish.

Without bells and whistles, Mister Rogers dealt thoughtfully, gently, and age-appropriately with the fundamental themes of childhood. Write to PBS and tell them that Mister Rogers Neighborhood belongs in all our homes.

For more information, check out: http://savemisterrogers.com/

Evelyn David

Collecting

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My co-author asked me the other day if I collected anything. Thinking of an old roommate who collected thousands of key chains, my boss’s daughter who collected all the Beanie Babies ever manufactured, and my brother’s TVGuide collection (the original size not today’s version), I immediately answered, “No.”

My dozen or so porcelain dolls don’t qualify me as even a “novice” collector. My hundreds of books (okay, it might really be thousands of books but if I don’t acknowledge the number I don’t have to figure out how much money I’ve got invested in paper and words) might qualify.

I’m not sure total numbers is the key to collecting anyway. There has to be a certain intent to collect for collecting’s sake. I buy books to read them. I don’t buy “first editions.” I don’t focus on just one or two genres of books. I mix paperbacks with hardbacks. I don’t have my books catalogued and properly displayed. So … I’m probably not a book collector.

Movies? Televisions Shows? DVDs? I like to have copies of my favorite movies on DVD. I have all of West Wing and the new version of Battlestar Galactica on DVD. But I watch them. I don’t keep them in pristine condition on a shelf. A friend of mine’s father collects movies and has them all listed in a computer file. He knows exactly how many he has and doesn’t loan them out. He’s a collector. I’m not even close.

What else? Clothes? I have three closets full of old clothes that I need to throw away. Or maybe find some poor soul who desperately wants a prom dress from circa 1977, some suits with Dynasty style shoulder pads, and lots of bargains that never saw the light of day after I brought them home. I don’t think my inability to get rid of clothes I can’t or won’t wear means I have a collection. Collecting and hoarding are two different things.

I admit I’m a hoarder. But that’s genetic, not a choice like collecting. I come from a long line of hoarders. Broken lawn equipment? Save it – you might need a part for another mower. Extra plumber’s putty? Save it for an emergency. Left over paint? Save it (ignore the shelf-life issue). Rusted exercise equipment? Old mismatched dishes? Ugly drinking glasses? Odd jars? Stray screws? You get the picture.

I’ve been trying to overcome my genetic predisposition to hang onto junk. Did I say junk? I meant useful items that I’ll need some day. As my grandmother always told me as she cut the hooks and eyes from old bras, “When times get hard again (i.e. the Great Depression), you’ll have what you need to get by.”

Yep. Hoarding is a good thing. Someday I’ll need all those extra buttons, plastic butter tubs, twist-ties and tiny hotel soaps. I’m almost sure of it.

Don’t laugh too hard. A couple of years ago an ice storm devastated the area where I live. Around three in the morning, during the worst of the storm, a limb fell and broke out one of my windows – a serious problem since I had no power and no heat. I needed to cover the broken glass quickly to keep the cold and rain out. Those old leaky, vinyl pool mattresses I had stuffed in a box in my utility room came in handy. The mattresses, a few nails and a lot of duct tape, sealed that window for more than a month. The insurance adjuster was appropriately impressed.

How about you? Are you a collector? Or a hoarder? How did you get started?

Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com/

Smart Women, Toxic Men

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“He’s a very engaging guy with big ideas…I trusted him completely.”

That’s a description of Clark Rockefeller, the faux-scion of the Rockefeller clan, who has maintained a variety of fictional identities for 20 years. But here’s my question. Did his ex-wife know the truth? How did Sandra Boss, a smart woman earning in the high-six figures, marry such a cad? What drew her to a man who deceived her and then kidnapped their child?

And Ms. Boss is by no means the only intelligent woman duped by her man. Hillary Clinton, Silda Spitzer, Christie Brinkley, these are all women who have excelled in their professional lives, but ended up with men who lied, cheated, and betrayed them?

And they were the lucky ones. They’re still living. How about Stacy Petersen, now missing, but presumed dead, allegedly killed by her husband who, according to their pastor, had also killed wife number three. Or Jessie Marie Davis and her unborn daughter, murdered by her policeman boyfriend, Bobbie Cutts, Jr. Or Lacey Peterson and unborn son Conner – slaughtered by her husband, Scott Peterson.

But let’s talk about the less extreme situations. Smart women; caddish husbands. Why do they stay? Does the woman accept the bad behavior because she doesn’t think she deserves better. Is she convinced that she can change the bad behavior over time? Is she embarrassed to be in the situation and doesn’t think she can afford (economically, professionally, personally) to get out? Do the couple have an unspoken agreement that she will ignore the behavior as long as it doesn’t impact on her daily life? If he doesn’t get caught by outsiders, can she live with his dalliances or betrayals? Lots of things could play into the mix – religion, gender roles, power, education, personality type, familial history, learned behavior, ability to cope with stress, etc.

Or, and this is the one that troubles me the most, are some women genuinely surprised when they discover their partners’ secret lives and the world comes crashing down around them?

Look, there are certainly times in my life when you can call me Cleopatra, I’m the Queen of De-nial. Ask me about my weight, and I live in ignorant bliss. I don’t know (I literally don’t own a scale), and I don’t want to know. But I’d like to think that I’m honest with myself about the big stuff. I trust my husband with my life. I believe in him completely – but I assume so did these women.

So I open for discussion: Is it possible to live intimately with a man for years, and have no idea that he’s leading a secret life? Do you not know – or do you choose to not know?

Evelyn David

New School Clothes

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August has never been one of my favorite months. It always heralded the end of summer’s freedom and the fast approaching school year. Even though it’s been many years since I had to buy new school supplies and clothes, when the calendar page flips to August, the memories come rushing back.

This weekend was a “sales tax-free” holiday in Oklahoma. For two days shoppers were given the opportunity to purchase certain clothing and shoes free of state and local sales tax. To be exempt each item had to be priced at less than $100. For large families this benefit could mean saving hundreds of dollars. And it may mean a few more kids start school with at least one new outfit.

Do you remember how important it was to have that new outfit? Do you remember the confidence those new clothes gave you? In those new shoes or new jeans, anything seemed possible. As a kid my new school clothes were always “winter” clothes. Wool jackets and skirts, sweaters, long sleeved shirts, vests, etc.

When the new Sears or J. C. Penneys Fall Catalog came out, I’d pour over the fashions (this was pre-mall days), marking the pages that held the cutest clothes. I don’t remember ever being able to order more than one or two items, my Mom and grandmother made most of my clothes. But the catalogs told me what clothes were “in” and what the normal pre-teen would be wearing when the leaves turned gold. But late August in Oklahoma is hot. Very hot. And when I was in school, the rooms were not air-conditioned. I wore my new clothes anyway, despite my parents’ protests. The second day I’d be back in cooler clothes, but the first day was special. Okay, hot and sweaty, but special.

I saw on the national news this weekend a report about a school in Texas which plans to punish dress code violators by making them wear school purchased “prison-garb type” jumpsuits. I’m sure that will work out really well. Not. The kids are already talking about making the wearing of the jumpsuit some kind of rite of passage. And if you read the entire article you’ll see the jumpsuits aren’t just to cover immodest clothing choices – they’re also a punishment for boys who wear earrings or have facial hair or wear t-shirts instead of the required collared shirts. Ever notice how dress codes always seem to morph from reasonable to super finicky really fast?

I guess this would be where the perennial school uniform debate would come in. But I’m not going to go there. I believe kids need to learn how to make choices and appropriate school attire is one of those choices.

Parents have to be involved with helping their “own” children make those choices. Often these strict dress code rules in public schools are less the result of the public norm and more the result of the “tyranny of the majority” on the school board. And when the makeup of the majority on the school board changes, the dress code changes. I imagine these jumpsuits will be gone by next year, if not sooner.

Do you think the school board has considered the cost of keeping all those school-owned jumpsuits cleaned and pressed? When schools have trouble paying for books and desks and fuel for school buses, is this the best use of public funds?

What about teaching kids to read? Improving math scores? Encouraging students to learn history, science, and geography? School boards and administrators have more important things than shirt collars to worry about.

And so do I.

Does J.C. Penneys still send out a Fall catalog?

Evelyn David

In the Still of the Night

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Since it seems to be the week for blogs on the paranormal, I thought I’d chime in with my one and only ghostly encounter. I do believe in an afterlife, although it’s a vague concept that basically has me chatting on a daily basis with relatives I miss. I haven’t completely resolved in my mind how heaven and hell really work and I confess to a childish vision of their operations. For those I want to condemn to the celestial fiery furnaces, I’m hoping there is no such thing as purgatory because I want those evildoers on a nonstop express directly to the heat. And for those angels on earth who have done nothing but good in their lives, I want them enjoying the sweetness of heaven as soon as possible.

My mother, the original Evelyn, died six weeks after my daughter’s birth. I was, quite simply, an unholy mess. I went through all the stages of grief simultaneously, while at the same time, was numb to the point of emotional paralysis. How could I deal with my loss when everyday life was so demanding: a husband, three active sons, a newborn, home, writing commitments, legal issues with Mom’s estate – all on zero sleep?

About a month after she died, I finally fell into a dreamless slumber. It was so deep that not even a noise that would, pardon the pun, wake the dead, would have caused me to stir. But in a vision that is still as clear to me as if it happened just last night, my mother came to my room and stood next to my bed. I can’t tell you what she was wearing, although she looked healthy, unlike those last months when she became a shadow of herself. She wasn’t young; there were no halos, which makes sense because my mother was the epitome of style and there’s no way she’d ever wear a hat that didn’t have a snappy brim; no celestial music which also makes sense because my mother loved jazz so unless Ella Fitzgerald was scatting in the background, she would have turned off the sound.

Mom was kind, but brief and to the point – exactly as she was when alive. She told me that she was fine – and that I would be okay too. It wasn’t a long discussion, no descriptions of the better place she was in; not even, and I would have liked this, a “hello” from my dad. But it was such a comforting visit that I awoke at peace for the first time in weeks. My mother believed in taking care of business – and not even death could stop her from getting me back on track.

Was it my psyche healing itself? I don’t think so. I could definitely feel her presence and despite being a writer, I can’t get more descriptive than that. My mother was in the room with me – of that I am sure. And today, in heaven, she’s smiling that all these years later, she still has the power she always had to comfort and reassure her daughter. Thanks Mom.

Have you had any ghostly encounters?

Evelyn David

Ghost Hunting – Part 2

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Old creepy hotels are well … old. That was my first brilliant observation as my brother and I lugged our stuff from the parking lot up the front steps into the Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. The entrance doorknob was about six inches lower than a normal doorknob. At 5 foot 7 inches, I had to stoop to open the door. With my hands filled with two bags, my oversized purse, and my laptop, the maneuver was awkward and uncomfortable. Much like the rest of my stay in the Victorian hotel.

Old creepy hotels in the South in July are well … hot. Swelteringly hot. The Crescent Hotel has window air conditioning units in the guest rooms but the rest of the hotel is dependent on ceiling fans and cold spots created by ghosts.

Yep, ghosts.

First let me report that I didn’t see any ghosts. I don’t think I heard any ghosts. And I probably didn’t sense any ghosts. You’ll note that I’m a lot more definite about not seeing any manifestations, orbs, or unusual shadows.

We went on the Ghost Tour on Tuesday night, our second night, at the hotel. Starting at 8:00 P.M. a psychic with an intricate knowledge of the hotel’s history led a group of twenty or more through the hallways and basement of the 1886 Victorian hotel.

Originally a resort hotel, it later became a women’s college and dormitory, then a cancer clinic run by a charlatan, and again a hotel. Aside from a stone mason killed in an accident during construction and a young student who went off a balcony to her death, most of the reported ghost sightings involve patients from the hotel’s infamous cancer hospital days. Dr. Baker, a self proclaimed physician despite no medical training, cruelly butchered, through experimental surgeries and treatments, and generally swindled thousands of cancer victims. Many are buried or cremated on site. Check here for more details about the hotel’s history and ghost sightings.

The tour lasted more than two hours. I had plenty of time to watch for ghosts and to watch the people in the group watching for ghosts. By far the people watching was the most interesting. The demographics of the tour group ranged from 2 to 70-plus years in age, from male to female to uncommitted. All were busy with digital cameras trying to catch a spirit appearance. The two-year-old did a lot of running and screaming down the hallways. I had a feeling that if a ghost had shown up, the toddler would have had company.

My brother took over a hundred photos, one that showed a possible orb (a spirit with only enough energy to appear as a ball of light in photos). Or it might just have been the sun through the skylight.

And one that showed something we couldn’t identify. He took several photos of empty chairs in spots where ghosts were reported to hang out. In the photos as in real life, the chairs appeared empty.

Personally I think the ghosts were absent because of the heat. It felt like a 110 F in the non-air conditioned lobby and hallways. What self-respecting ghost would choose to suffer those temps when they could be out in the gardens or the pool scaring humans?

Okay – so I didn’t see any ghosts on this trip. And I mentioned above that I don’t think I heard any ghosts. The reason I’m not as sure about the audio encounters is that between the organic noises of the old building (banging elevator, creaking floors, unbalanced ceiling fans, sounds from substandard plumbing, noisy window air conditioner units turned to the “freeze please” setting, etc.) and the loud voices of flesh and blood guests who’d spent too much time in the bar, I wouldn’t have been able to hear a ghostly whisper, moan, or groan if my life depended on it.

Okay – the first night I might have heard metal gurneys from the 1930s being pushed back and forth in the hallways. Or more likely, I heard the sounds of living guests pulling their wheeled suitcases over the wooden floors. I had a digital audio recorder with me. And like the investigators on Ghost Hunters, I had planned to sit in my empty room, turn the recorder on, and then ask if any ghosts wanted to talk to me. But … I kept thinking, what if they did? What would I do if I asked a question and got an answer? How would I react? My world view would be changed. My religious beliefs would be challenged. And most importantly, I would have had to pack up and find a Holiday Inn in the middle of the night. I decided it was better to leave the recorder in my purse.

So no visuals. No sounds. What about sensing ghosts?

Maybe.

When I was in the basement (the location of the old operating and autopsy rooms) with the tour group, the keys I had in the pocket of my slacks, moved.

It felt like someone had passed a magnet by my hip and the metal hotel key and metal fob clanked together and moved away from my body. It was a strong enough sensation that I asked the tour guide if there were magnets in the area. He said, “No. Ghosts like to play tricks with keys.” He told me that I’d been “touched.”

I’m not so sure. I’m a born skeptic. But I admit the possibility forced me to sleep with a light on my last night at the hotel.

Will I go back? Probably not. At least not in the summertime. Maybe Halloween?

Even though I didn’t leave with concrete proof of ghosts, I did leave with a good story. For a writer, that’s all that matters.

Evelyn David

When Bad Movies Happen to Good People

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Meryl Streep is the gold standard. If you describe Pamela Anderson’s performance in Blonde and Blonder, and point out that “she’s no Meryl Streep,” everyone knows exactly what you mean.

And while Pierce Brosnan is no Meryl Streep either, he can certainly hold his head up when walking down Hollywood Boulevard.

So what happened when they both signed on the dotted line for Mamma Mia? Did Meryl decide that with enough emoting, it didn’t matter that she was 20 years too old for the part? Did Pierce resolve that even if he sounded off-key in the shower, when he hit the big screen, suddenly he’d be Pavarotti?

In fact, the elements were all there for a fantastic movie: a stage show that’s been seen by more than 30 million people worldwide, a cast of phenomenal actors, fun music, gorgeous locale …so what went wrong?

Rick McCallum, legendary producer of the Star Wars movies, once said, “the truth is, nobody ever sits down at a table and says ‘hey let’s make a bad movie’. No producer, director, writer says ‘God I’ve got a really great idea for a sh***y film’. It doesn’t work that way. But something in the process, something about the compromises, the timing, the studio, the phenomenal pressure that artists have to go through, causes something to go really wrong.”

That happens with books too. How often have you read a book from a favorite author and the magic is gone, the story is flat, or you don’t recognize the characters you’ve grown to love?

On the other hand… Maybe somebody (or in the case of a movie, several somebodies) just had a bad day. Ty Cobb has the highest lifetime batting average (.366), but that means that he got a hit only three out of every ten times he was at bat. Babe Ruth struck out more than 1300 times in his career.

Are we too demanding? If a good-faith effort is made is that enough? Or for $10.50, plus the cost of buttered popcorn, are we entitled to better? Or was I just too hot and tired to fully appreciate the joy of ABBA music, even if sung off-key?

What do you think?

Evelyn David

Ghost Hunting

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What’s your favorite ghost story? Was it a movie? A book? A short story? A tv series? I confess I love ghost stories, especially haunted house stories. I like the creepy ones best.

Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House continues to be one of the scariest things I’ve ever read. Steven King’s The Shining comes in a close second. The television series Dark Shadows and The Night Stalker gave me rich fodder for my childhood nightmares. Movies that pulled a scream from me? These are some that I remember the best: Poltergeist, Session 9, The Sixth Sense, The Ring, The Amityville Horror, Burnt Offerings, and White Noise.

White Noise was a movie about ghosts communicating though the static “white noise” of radios and televisions that are tuned to empty stations. The movie introduced me to the concept of Electronic Voice Phenomenon (EVP). Apparently if you want to communicate with ghosts, one way is to use a tape recorder. You might not hear the ghosts talking to you, but the tape recorder will. You’ll hear them later when the tape is played back slowly and at an increased volume. I’m using the term “tape recorder” but of course everyone uses a digital recorder. Apparently ghosts don’t have a preference.

Watch Ghost Hunters on the SciFi channel and you’ll see the investigators go into a darkened room, turn on their tape recorder, and then try to provoke ghosts to answer questions they pose aloud. Usually they ask something like, “Do you want to talk to us? Do you want us to go away?” Something that only requires a short answer. You don’t want to overtax ghosts.

I enjoy watching the Ghost Hunter episodes although I have doubts that ghosts always cooperate with the show’s production schedule. They set up elaborate cameras and recording devices in an alleged ghost-filled location, spend a couple of hours, and then pack it up. I want to see someone set up camp in a haunted house for about six months with all the cameras and recorders going 24/7. That would be a great reality show.

Okay, so why am I talking ghosts today? Because I’m going to be spending tonight and tomorrow night in a haunted hotel; one of the places where Ghost Hunters filmed an episode during their second season. I’ve got reservations for the Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. My brother is going with me (another fan of the Ghost Hunter show). We’re going to take the evening Ghost Tour and learn a little more about the history of the structure built in 1886, then spend two nights watching for ghosts.

Half joking, I told my brother to bring his digital camera so we could get shots of orbs and other physical manifestations if the ghosts show up while we’re there. He agreed, but informed me that they would probably drain the camera’s batteries before we could get a shot.

“Drain the batteries?” I asked. He didn’t seem to be joking.

He gave me a knowing look.

Okay, so maybe I don’t watch the show that closely. Or take it that seriously. Maybe I just have it on while I write, glancing over at the screen when the screaming starts. I actually did watch the entire episode about the Crescent Hotel though. The scariest part wasn’t the sounds or the shadows the investigators managed to catch on their monitoring equipment. It was when an investigator’s laptop computer was moved, through means unknown, from the top of the hotel bed to a position leaning against the exterior door. That really creeped me out.

Nobody, ghost or human, touches my laptop.

Check back later in the week for updates to this blog.

Update: 4:00 P.M. Central – 7/21/08

Arrived at hotel and got checked in. About 100 degrees F. outside. Rooms were on the fourth floor and very hot until I got the window units going. There is wireless internet in the hotel but it’s very, very slow. So far the only odd thing is that I had to put new batteries in my wireless keyboard. But it might have just needed new batteries – it’s been about 2 months since I used it.

Plan to participate in the ghost tour tonight at 8:00 P.M. Central.

So far my first impression is that old buildings are great to tour but maybe not so great to stay overnight in. Nothing special about the room that I’m in – just old.

Evelyn

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

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Sometimes you want to go
Where everybody knows your name,
and they’re always glad you came.
You wanna be where you can see,
our troubles are all the same
You wanna be where everybody knows
Your name.

In the basement of a row house, around the corner from where I grew up, was a tiny grocery store, run by Mrs. Bass. My mother didn’t drive and my father traveled during the week, so it was no big deal for Mom, the original Evelyn, to tell me to run to Mrs. Bass for some bologna (my favorite), or a can of peas (nobody’s favorite), or just a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes (unfortunately, my mother’s favorite).

But the point is, no one thought it unusual to send a little girl of six around the corner, nor did I have to take any money with me, because I could just tell Mrs. Bass to charge it and head for home.

In contrast, I was walking my daughter to her elementary school, which is all of a block and half away, until she was 10 years old. Even if we concede that I’m a worrywart, just about everyone in the world agrees that life ain’t what it used to be. Today we all think we need to watch our kids a lot closer than those days years ago when your mom opened the door at 8 in the morning and she didn’t see you again until suppertime. I’m not totally convinced that it was really a more innocent time, but we certainly believed that bad things couldn’t happen on Coldspring Lane.

In any case, that sense of familiarity, of a place where everyone knows your name, seems to have gone the way of rotary dial phones. The grownups on Coldspring Lane knew all the kids and would have certainly reported any serious misbehavior to the parents of an errant child. Today, I know my neighbors on either side of my house, but I only have a nodding acquaintance with the people across the street. Maybe it’s because I live in a metropolitan area where people move in and out faster than, as we say in these parts, a New York minute?

Sometimes I really miss that sense of familiarity. Other times, and maybe it’s because as I grow older I also grow more crotchety, I don’t want everyone to know my business anymore. There is an interesting variation on the neighborhood concept — one we couldn’t have forseen all those summer days ago. While I may not know everyone in my town, thanks to the Internet, I now have friends and can keep in close touch with people around the world. Writing Murder Off the Books helped me move into a new part of a virtual town. I may kvetch about all the promotion necessary to market a new book, but in truth, I treasure the opportunities I’ve had to meet new people, sometimes in person, often online. My neighborhood has grown exponentially larger. And while not everyone knows my name, Evelyn David, we’re working on it. I remember with great fondness the old friends on Coldspring Lane; but this new neighborhood is pretty swell.

Evelyn David

Captcha Tyranny

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You would think that a mystery writer would like word puzzles. And I do, but not the kind currently being used on the internet to sort out humans from machines in the no-holds-barred war against SPAM (unwanted, unsolicited emails or messages sent in bulk by electronic means).

A Captcha is defined on Wikipedia as a “Completely Automated Public Turing Test.” What’s a Turing Test? A test to see if a computer can respond like a human. Captchas are sort of a reverse Turing Test. A computer tries to determine if it’s interacting with a human or another computer.

More and more often you will be required to answer a Captcha before posting a blog, sending an email, or even sending a “friend” request on social networking sites (MySpace, Facebook, etc.) The Captcha is a series of letters and sometimes numbers that are distorted, stacked on top of one another or otherwise obscured by background images. You are required to decipher the Captcha and type it correctly into a box underneath the image. You don’t have to worry with whether or not the letters are upper or lower case. You just have to figure out what the letters are. And it’s not that easy.

Maybe it’s just me, but I have a hard time convincing computers that I’m human. On an average it takes me four or five wrong answers, before the computer accepts my solution. The following are actual Captchas I’ve been confronted with in the last few days.

If you look at this Captcha it’s not too hard to solve. My eyes tell me it’s one of two possible strings – IMGIFM or IMGIFRN.

This second Captcha is solvable – CSSQCNE – assuming that you remember what a cursive Q looks like.

But look at the Captcha below. Is the first character an F? Or is that just a line in the Captcha to obscure the other letters? FHJTSXY maybe. Is there just one large T or two smashed together?

Okay – what’s the answer for the Captcha below? DUOHZK? Or DUDVZK or DUCLVZK or DUCHZK? Could be any of them. What a headache!

There is usually an option to ask for another Captcha to solve or a “handicap” symbol to click if you get stuck. Theoretically, if you click on the handicap symbol you are supposed to get an audible recitation of the Captcha and then you just type what you hear. I tried that a few times. Usually the audio file would not play correctly on my computer – think soft, quick mumbles of sounds. Nothing I could identify.

Sometimes I just let the computer win. Often I decide that whatever I’m trying to post or whoever’s group I’m trying to join is just not worth the effort.

Remember “Hal” from the 1968 movie “2001 – A Space Odyssey”? Hal was a computer on a space ship who took control away from the astronauts on board. Hal would love Captchas. I don’t.

Evelyn