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By Rick Reynolds

I’m quite sure my computer wants to kill me.

My work laptop has one of those security devices that reads your finger print before loading your files. Every single workday for the past three years, I’ve carefully swiped my forefinger across the little window and the damn fingerprint reader summarily dismisses that I am who I purport to be. It’ll play with me a while, saying I swiped too fast, too slow, too soft, or too skewed—before it outright accuses me of identity theft. After 10 tries, it will flash “Security Breech!” Once it decides you’re a security risk, no amount of finger pointing will succeed for 45 seconds, presumably to give it time to calm down. It does everything but point out that I’ve dribbled coffee down my shirt (it knows my wife does that).

So, after arriving at work at about 8 a.m., I must endure the indignity of swiping my index finger at every imaginable angle, at pressures ranging from 1 to 26O psi, and after all fails, presenting it with my middle finger in order to heat up the “dialogue.” Indeed, I am forced to pass my “digitus secundus” over the glass so many times, I’ve rubbed the fingerprint right off my fingertip. Thus, stripping me of my identity, it continues having its way with me.

I’ve even resorted to licking my finger in the hopes of making better contact, but a question mark/exclamation point prompt comes up questioning (I’m guessing), if I’m some kind of pervert. I’ve even tried to fool it by Xeroxing my other pointer finger, then flopping it and passing it over the glass—to no avail.

If I haven’t gotten into my computer by 9:30, I must suffer the humiliation of asking the IT guy to come down, for the hundredth time, to hold my finger to the reader, when, of course, it suddenly works. I’ve begged him to change the sensitivity of the security settings, but he tells me it wouldn’t work: the machine, flat out, doesn’t like me (literally and figuratively).

I have similar problems while driving with my Tom Tom GPS navigator. Madam Tom Tom, as I refer to the device’s voice, is always sending me down dubious routes, and when I opt to ignore her, an edginess to her voice becomes more and more apparent. A slightly annoyed, “Turn around at the next road,” I’ll hear repeatedly until she finally gives up and reroutes me around my “mistake.”

On a few occasions, when I’ve found myself on a cow path—two dirt tire tracks with grass in between—I’ve had words with Madam Tom Tom. I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve said to her—especially when, after making 15 lefts and rights on trails traveled only by goat herders, I emerge out onto a paved road directly across from the restaurant I’d been looking for. Then, once again, I must apologize profusely to Madame Tom Tom for my lack of faith and patronizing, misogynist treatment.

Despite my wife’s many strengths, map reading isn’t one of them, so she credits Madam Tom Tom with saving our marriage. As far as my computer woes, my spouse calls me a digital vigilante, or “digilante,” who seeks trigger-finger vengeance while operating outside the laws of binary logic.

I don’t know why I can’t get along better with my machines. Moreover, I don’t know why they should wish me harm. Sometimes I think it’s because I’ve purchased them discount at Amazon—or maybe it’s the free, 3rd class shipping that’s upsetting them. One thing is for sure: both my machines and I feel undervalued.

Chappaqua alumnus and 35-year resident of Chappaqua, humorist Rick Reynolds resides in southern New Hampshire with his wife, daughter,
and two dogs.

By Rick Reynolds

No, the title is not a typo. This is NOT about the best selling book, The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, by Amy Chua, which has sent shock waves through a generation of permissive parenting. Having been both a permissive student and a semi-strict parent in Chappaqua, I can tell you that the Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother (and father) has played out for generations in the hyper-competitive, education-on-steroids world of Chappaqua academia. But this isn’t about that.

This isn’t about chaining one’s child to a piano till she can play Bach in her sleep. No, this isn’t about parents insisting their third graders get all A’s and no B’s, so they can go to Harvard, or Princeton, or Yale or West Point—and not those lesser colleges and universities. Nor is it about joining the debate club, or banning sleepovers, television, and free time–all of which is advisable, but unrealistic in the extreme. No, in a world where children have instant worldwide communication through the Internet, the notion that they can be controlled by anything other than solitary confinement deep in a mineshaft is absurd. As they say here in New Hampshire, “Thems days is over.”

So, relax parents. The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Moth is about the 1930’s and 40’s RAF biplane, and its look-alike, nest-spinning, tree-destroying, bi-colored moth for which the early aircraft was named. The plane was used as a flight trainer in the run up to World War II. During the war, it was deployed as a light bomber for even lighter targets, and with a specially fitted, scythe-like blade, it served as a parachute line cutter, freeing descending enemy paratroopers from their chutes. But most interesting was the Tiger Moth’s use as a tug for pulling dummy targets to shoot ordnance at. The tow plane, known as the “Queen Bee,” was one of the first remotely piloted aircraft, developed after tug pilots with short tow ropes refused to take flak from friendly forces.

The Queen Bee spawned the word “drone,” the robotic craft which makes up our modern fleet of pilot-less aircraft used for surveillance and pinpoint precision bombing. Instead of sending young troops into harm’s way, wars will more-and-more be fought over foreign soil by drones operated by “A” students in New Jersey and Utah. (Their commanders will be “A” students from Chappaqua–at least those few who don’t become doctors, stockbrokers, or their lawyers.) In either case, survival of the fittest may depend on the survival of the Tiger Mother and her hyper-educated cubs–not that this is about that.

The Tiger Moth plane was also used in battle against–you guessed it–the Tiger Moth bug. Outfitted with pesticide tanks, the Tiger Moth dusted crops and the trees housing the leaf-killing silken nests of Tiger Moths. The moth, having the advantage of numbers, luckily survived long enough to see the emergence of the organic movement. Having seen human folly come and go, the Tiger Moth now lives happily on the web, enjoying its bug life as a happy herbivore eating locally produced food.

So where am I going with this? you ask. Hell if I know. I do know that, the more things change, the more they stay the same. With today’s brutal economic environment, humans and bugs alike need all the ammunition they can get. It’s not just about getting A’s, though, but what we get A’s in. In the end, nature wins–with or without us. There’s only one war that must be won, and that’s the Battle Hymn of the Tiger Moth.

By Rick Reynolds

Look. We all know that, regardless of your age, your mother always knew more about you than was good for her health. But when my mother friended me six years after her death, I’m thinking, “Thanks a lot, Facebook!”

Upon awaking from that nightmare, I decided to stay off the social networking site. It appears that Osama bin Laden, Bernie Madoff, and Rick Reynolds are the only holdouts left–in this world or beyond–who prefer
their privacy.

If only there were a “mother” button on Facebook, we would place her there. If you’re like most people, your shameful life dictates that you, instead, place Mom in a special alternate, clandestine area where one neither accepts nor declines; a kind of Facebook purgatory where she can believe you or her prying eyes. Of course, you can always decline the request –in polite company we call it, “ignore.” It’s not that your mom isn’t your friend. Indeed, she’s so special a friend, she comes with her own special name: “MOTHER.”

But if your mother made it to the 21st century a decade after you did, you’ll need a protocol. After all, it’s not just mothers. Many fathers, uncles and grandfathers are married to moms, aunts and grandmothers–if not
yours. And virtually all have received that gift that keeps on giving–social networking.

The main thing to remember, when Mom decides to friend you, is not to panic. Take a deep breath. Draw the air deep into your powerhouse. As I said, your mother already knows how weird you are—if not the details—even without Facebook. Now, all she wants to know about are your secret experiences. (BTW, your father
hasn’t got a clue, unless your mother told him.)

While composing your Facebook status, decide if your profile is appropriate. Look into a mirror and ask yourself if you have more than six pictures of yourself that would prevent you from landing a future job at FedEx. If you’re holding a glass in the picture, Photoshop milk into it. If you’re standing next to undesirable characters holding up birds without feathers, consider deleting them or rethink accepting your mother as a friend. However, you must always remember who’s footing the bill for your lavish lifestyle. And where your inheritance is coming from.

I’ve thought of starting a Facebook page, but with my paranoia, there wouldn’t be anything on it. I’d use an alias, post a picture taken 30 years ago, and retouch my beard. I’d have plenty of friends, but they’d soon get bored staring at a vacant page, much like they do when they read my magazine columns. I read recently about a software developer, Dana Hanna, who walked down the matrimonial aisle with cell phone in hand. After vows were exchanged, but before kissing the bride, Hanna took his cell

phone and updated his relationship status. Just when I was feeling terrible for the bride, I read she grabbed the phone from him so she could update hers.

It was then I knew a new mother was born; one who will eventually know more than is optimal for her health. The minister waited patiently for each to confirm the other’s new status, before declaring them husband and wife.

Mark Twain once wrote, “I was dead for millions of years before I was born, and it didn’t inconvenience me in the slightest.” Well, Twain did ease my unease with mortality, but it will take more than Facebook’s Mark Zuckerberg (Time magazine’s “Person of the Year’) to share my millions of sorry moments—despite knowing it would not inconvenience (or surprise) my mother in the slightest.

Chappaqua alumnus and 35-year resident of Chappaqua, humorist Rick Reynolds resides in southern New Hampshire with his wife, daughter,
and two dogs.

by Rick Reynolds

Back when I first started writing for Inside Chappaqua, my daughter was still drawing with chalk on the cul de sac outside our Chappaqua home. All grown up now, she’s majoring in art and riding for a collegiate equestrian team in the central valley of New Hampshire. It’s been a long while.

Anyway, during that time and within these pages I’ve written about such dark and sordid subjects as puppies, parenthood, holidays, sharing, gardening, knitting, and cookies, to name just a few. And I hope I’ve made not merely a few lives a little more tolerable in the process. I’m here to tell you, all the above are survivable!

It’s not that I’m overly critical.
I just have little patience for the “glass-half-full” people–or their “glass-half-empty” counterparts. Call me literal, but I just see the half glass. (Not literally, of course: not a half glass filled to the gunwales, but a whole glass half full.) So, in a world of “halfs” and “half nots,” I’m a “half,” deadlocked precisely midway between unvarnished reality and gauzy optimism.

And what’s wrong with a half a glass anyway? It whets your whistle, and it’s enough to get your pills down. Moreover, with our latest market meltdown, I’d like to think “half” is the new “black.” Half is better than none and more sustainable than “all.” And promoting “half” avoids platitudes. For instance, for those who say, “When one door closes, another one opens,” I was the one who wanted to pick the lock on the closed one–seeing the new door as a trap.

As a Bell School student, I dreamt of becoming either a theoretical physicist or a bank robber. Having little talent for either, I re-imagined myself a theoretical bank robber with a hankering for art. Thankfully, Stanley Tucci, the renown art teacher at Greeley (and father of the famous actor by the same name), fanned the embers of my artistic half, wisely telling me I could always become a bank robber later on if I really wanted it badly enough. What a difference one teacher can make in your life!

With Mr. Tucci’s encouragement, I went on to study fine art, minoring in communication design as a lifeline. This armed me with the skills to try and make the unsightly half of the world half attractive. After college I moved back to Chappaqua and ran a marketing communications/corporate events firm for 25 years out of NYC and Armonk.

And then with, yes, a new door opening–one I picked–I took a position as a marketing director at a thriving national timber frame homebuilding firm. Bucking the downward trend in new home construction, I’ve used print advertising to great effect, and while many of our competitors have hunkered down and gone under, our shops are busy turning out beautiful, energy efficient, heirloom quality homes–knock on wood. The patient is still alive! Customers want to buy, especially locally, if they can find you.

But I’m digressing. Where was I? Oh yes. Writing for Inside Chappaqua.

Sure, the good publisher and editor had scratched her head at some of my submissions, wondering if one can make half sense, or half nonsense, and still have any validity whatsoever–and I credit her with hanging in there. I certainly hope that, with this “economy of half” in which we find ourselves, advertisers will see that a small town print magazine is worth much more than the paper it’s printed on. It’s imprinted on our fabric. It’s community. When we lose that, we’ve lost half the battle–the only half worth writing about.

Chappaqua alumnus and 35-year resident of Chappaqua, humorist Rick Reynolds resides in southern New Hampshire with his wife, daughter,
and 2 dogs.

By Rick Reynolds

As my only child heads off for college, suddenly my head is filled with dreamscapes of her growing up in Chappaqua. Chappaqua was, in essence, my gift to her. And unlike me, she’d get to begin life there.

The Hamlet was a haven for me when I arrived as a skinny 8th grader from Long Island to rebuild my young life. North of White Plains, the landscape seemed to open up. For me the congestion, cement, smog , and well, badness of megalopolis released its grip, giving way to an oasis of frog-filled swamps, fishable ponds, pristine reservoirs, and yes—the mighty Saw Mill River. Like my pitch-perfect hero, Clemens (Samuel, not Roger), I dreamed of sidewheel steamships plying the tricky currents of the bifurcating Saw Mill River— admittedly a stretch, but soothing as I acclimated to my new home. Chappaqua had scale. Okay, it wasn’t the vast plains of the frontier, as Horace Greeley aptly pointed out, but with a little squinting, one could imagine being at Walden—not in the 12X15 foot cabin sense—but in the modest, 5,000 square foot Eldorado ranch vein, surrounded by old growth trees and lawns greener than Kermit.

It was into this gauzy image I wanted my child born. Having moved up from Greenwich Village in NYC, where I had met my wife, Chappaqua beckoned as the perfect incubator for our little hatchling.

And she took it like a true amphibian. She was catching frogs and dressing them up as ballerinas at age 2. And wrestling snakes by the age of 3.

“Look who’s living with us now, Da Da,” she’d say, holding up a confused-looking (later indignant) water snake. Turned out the snake was pregnant, and the resultant fingerlings had migrated under our house shingles, coming out to sunbath on our patio from time-totime— but I digress.

By the time she was entering kindergarten, my daughter was collecting a menagerie of dogs, parrots, rabbits, squirrels, turtles, toads, and crickets, when not riding horses at the various stables ringing North Castle. The country life Chappaqua afforded her was the Petri dish in which she evolved. Now it’s part of her DNA.

Of course, for my daughter, these romanticized images would give way to romantic interests and the angst of onset, childhood puberty, when the pool club was no longer a warm, round, splash pool to pee in—but a parade ground of lean, tan, shirtless boys in Speedos serving up hamburgers and Airheads.

She cruised right through the year I first set eyes on Chappaqua, never knowing there were belching factoryscapes and towns crisscrossed with ribbons of interstate interchanges. Where your house address was a highway exit. She was spared this.

Sitting up here in sunny New Hampshire, it’s all a blur to me now. What is it that Chappaqua does to us? Lord knows, when you wipe the Vaseline from your lenses, the town wasn’t Shangra La, but it was, and is, damn nice. The affluence that allows the town to remain bucolic does not prepare one for the realities of the rest of the country, let alone the world. But as my little girl leaves the nest, I know she’ll be drawn back someday to that Peacible Kingdom—Chappaqua—as I was, 24 years ago today.

Chappaqua alumnus and 35-year resident, humorist RICK REYNOLDS resides in southern New Hampshire with his wife, daughter and dog.