Susie is an inveterate gardner and one-time Botanist. Even now, when we pass a shrub or a tree, she is liable to say, "I can no longer remember the common name for that," and then reel off the Latin name impeccably. Our little condominium looks like a garden shop, filled with flowering plants of all sorts. This morning, as I was preparing to post the John Donne poem, I heard a cry of dismay from her. It seems that the little plastic watering can that she had used for countless years had sprung a leak, and all of its water had flooded onto the floor. "Where will I get another?" she asked disconsolately. "I have had it for so long I cannot even recall where I bought it."
I looked on the bottom of the watering can, now broken and useless, and saw a name and model number. Slightly less than a minute later, I had one-clicked an order for a replacement from amazon.com. It will be here Wednesday or Thursday. Before too much time has passed, I will be able to expect such things to be delivered by mini-drone within hours.
Like all senior citizens, I have a good deal invested in the proposition that things were better in the old days. But not all things.