Technophobes take heart: It’s not age – it’s genetic

By Scott Woodhouse

What's with old people and technology?

My mother and father, who aren't getting around as much as they used to, thought it would be nice to enjoy the odd movie in the comfort of their own home, so they purchased a DVD player... last January.

They had a kid from the store come and hook it up to their TV, because plugging in two colour-coded wires was too complicated.

If they thought that was hard, they were in for a bigger surprise when they actually tried to turn the thing on. They were so intimidated by the operating instructions, the thing sat on the shelf for a whole year. Not once did they use it in the past year. I could understand if they said there was nothing worth watching, but technophobia is no excuse.

But this Christmas Mom finally put her foot down. She took the plunge. She grabbed the bull by the horns and... well, you get the idea. She rented three DVDs.

She did this because she knew I would be there on Christmas Day and could show her how to use it. "We've rented some movies," she told me Christmas morning. "I want you to show me how to use that thing (DVD player)."

I took a piece of paper. I got a thick black pencil and printed in big block letters, step by step instructions with diagrams.

1. Turn power on. I drew a picture of the power button.

2. Open DVD tray. I drew a picture of the open/close button.

3. Place DVD in tray - label up. I drew a picture of a DVD - label up.

4. Close DVD tray. See above-mentioned diagrams.

You get the picture.

I explained about the two remote controls - one for the TV, one for the DVD player and that tricky Video/TV button. I drew another diagram.

I mean really, your average DVD remote has about 38 buttons, of which 99 per cent of the population uses three. Play. Stop. Fast Forward. But I digress.

Before we left, I went through the instructions in super slow motion and teed up Momma Mia. "You'll have to wait through the annoying previews before you get to the menu and press play."

Fast forward to Boxing Day. The phone rings. It's the parents.

I say parents because whenever we talk on the phone, they both grab a phone extension and talk at the same time.

Dad: "The DVD player quit."

Mom: We were watching a movie."

Dad: "Then it stopped."

Mom: "We watched  Momma Mia yesterday and we were watching The Bucket list today and it was good. We didn't like that Waking Ned Devine, though - couldn't make heads or tails out of that movie."

Dad: "Then it just stopped. The TV screen is all fuzzy."

Mom: "It was really windy. Do you think the wind did something to the cable?"

Dad: "Why isn't it working?"

Mom: "I think your Dad pushed a button on the remote."

And on it went. Through Mom's movie reviews and Dad's denials that he was messing around with the remote, I tried to diagnose the problem, ultimately giving up after 30 minutes when my personal fall-back (unplug everything and plug everything back in and start from scratch) failed to work. I could sense the disappointment in their voices when I explained there was no magical switch in Thornbury that I could pull and make the DVD player start working in Parry Sound.

Of course as soon as I got off the phone, I went on a rant to my wife about old people and technology. "They couldn't even tell me if the power was on."

"Now Scott, be kind," said daughter-in-law Deb, which is why they like her better than their own son... but that's a topic for another column.

Later that night the phone rang. I checked the call-display and saw the folk's number. "Here we go again," I said with heavy resignation. But I was wrong.

Inspired by, or in spite of, all my useless directions, Mom persevered and discovered a cable at the back of the machine had come unplugged. She had fixed it and they were back in business. This news was followed by a glowing review of the Bucket List.

Epilogue:

This morning at work it was extremely quiet. I walked over to the radio, thinking some music would be nice. I stared at the black ghetto blaster looking for a power switch or some method of turning it on. I must have looked fairly bewildered because co-worker Melissa (quite a bit younger than your faithful scribe) jumped up, flipped a switch, and voila - the music played.

Maybe it's not age... maybe it's genetic.