iPhone Lessons from my Grandma
“I don’t want to make the texts. Show me how to do a selfie.” That’s how my grandma started our first iPhone training session.
My 91 year old Grandma needed a better mobile phone because she was never home. She thought it would be foolish to keep paying for a landline when all she needed was a phone she could carry in her purse. Her old flip phone for emergencies was no longer cutting it. So, I got my grandma an iPhone with an orange striped case and added her to my plan. Orange, because it’s her favorite color. Every month, she mails me a check and when I don’t cash it, she scolds me.
We sit side by side on the couch as I go through her new phone, starting with the basics. She handles the phone like you would a live bomb, unsure how it’s put together and afraid to touch the wrong thing. As a girl of 16, she learned how to drive on a ‘36 Nash with the stick shift on the floor. Throughout her life, she’s learned everything life’s thrown at her, navigating wars, civil rights, divorce and the loss of her only child. By comparison, this is minor, but she’s nervous, afraid she’s too old to learn. Still, she loves the orange case. She’s quietly focused and determined and I know she’ll navigate this too.
We’ve gone through the screens many times. We practice calling each other. Each time, it gets a little easier. She touches the screen so softly that it doesn’t register the movement of her smooth fingertips. I tell her not to be afraid – she won’t break it. I remind her to hit the home button if she gets stuck because home is where you go when you don’t know what else to do. She taught me that.
Soon, she’s mastered making and answering calls. As a kid, we would only call at certain times because long distance calls were expensive. We had a signal. The phone would ring once and then my mom would call her back. Now, with unlimited voice and data, she can call whoever she wants whenever she wants, but she has fewer people to call. I enter in all of her numbers and show her the contact list, which she never uses. She doesn’t need to. She has all the phone numbers memorized. Each year, her contact list gets smaller, but she holds on tight to the ones who are left.
When I show her the photo gallery, she lights up. She can’t believe that she can look at all her pictures anytime she wants and more importantly, whip them out at a moment’s notice to show her friends. With the exception of the photos in frames on her walls, most of her printed pictures are in boxes in the storage locker or passed on to family or friends. She figures out the camera right away and we take selfie after selfie before settling on a good one to send to her friend – the only other one in her group who has a smartphone. For a brief moment, I think about showing her how to edit the photo to add filters and funny hats but decide to save that for another day. I know she would love that.
During the next lesson, we introduce a few apps. I thought she would be excited about Candy Crush, but she’s more amazed that she can get a weather report whenever she wants one. We Uber to a restaurant for lunch – an exercise to keep her freedom since she gave up her car. Instead of being buried in her phone during the ride, she collects the driver’s story, offering advice and encouragement. Next to her, I put my phone away and join in the conversation. The three of us arrive at the restaurant as friends and she can’t stop talking about what a nice young man he was and how he hopes he asks that girl to marry him. For her, the phone lives in her purse, not her hand. It’s not a tether.
When she was born, transatlantic calls weren’t a thing. It took effort to see and talk to the people you loved. Now, my son Facetimes with her. Each time, it thrills her – the surprise of having her boy suddenly appear in her living room. He’s tried to show her how to do it, but it hasn’t stuck. He doesn’t realize that she enjoys the time spent with him, heads bent over a common goal, more than she cares about the lesson in video conferencing.
Sometimes, I get calls from strange numbers and when I answer, it’s one of my grandma’s friends telling her phone is broken. So, after work, I drive over to her apartment and flick the silencing switch back to its original setting and like magic, the phone starts making noise again. They are amazed at my technical skills. I am happy to have solved a problem so easily. These impromptu tech support visits always end with a shared meal around her kitchen table, the one we’ve moved from her house to apartment after apartment over the years.
I’ve tried multiple times to show her how to text, but she always refuses. The letters are too small and in the wrong order. After a lifetime of working in bakeries and butcher shops, she doesn’t know the QWERTY keyboard. She has no use for it now. Her patient fingers, the ones that once taught me how to thread a sewing machine and build a house of cards, aren’t steady anymore. It’s ok. As she repeatedly tells me, she doesn’t want to make the texts. She needs to hear your voice to know you’re all right. So, when my phone rings, I know who it is. She’s the only person who calls me.
