by Carolyn Chilton
In the second grade, we learned cursive,
helped our mothers hang wash outside, planted
garden seeds and harvested vegetables.
My children can’t write in cursive,
have never eaten a carrot straight from the earth.
In junior high, I learned to cook a meal, mend
a garment, make my own clothes.
English teachers taught us how to pen a good letter.
To explore a topic, we looked up subjects
on library cards, searched for books in stacks.
We always carried a dime for a payphone
to call home and memorized important numbers.
In photography class, we learned to develop film
taken from our cameras in a dark room.
Now recipes and takeout menus are found online.
Clothes are discarded, landfills clogged with fabric.
Computers altered research and reading books
forever. We store photos on our phones.
In high school I was taught how to budget,
write checks, balance a checkbook.
I had jobs where I had to count back change
without the help of a calculator.
Outside my town, I navigated with a map
spread out over the passenger seat.
There was little money, so I figured out
how to fix things rather than replacing them.
Now I hear, Mom, could you hem this dress,
iron my shirt, make that casserole.
What does this note say; I can’t read the squiggles.
When there’s no signal, how
will I find my way home?
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