Dragons without Dungeons

I’d like to blame it all on Mary. She’s the wise and gracious blogger who signs herself “Grandmother” at Journeys into Elderhood. A couple of weeks ago she wrote here about a surprising discovery: Never a computer gamer, she now found herself spending hours on something called Dragonvale.  

I took one look at her screenshots and I was hooked. Now I have screenshots of my own.

Mary was surprised that a computer game could absorb so much time and attention. I, on the other hand, am familiar with falling down a rabbit-hole, being bedazzled by eye candy and strategically placed sound effects, loving the challenge of solving new kinds of puzzles, and feeling driven to master them. Eventually I emerge and wonder where time has gone. I blame only myself. But I'm not really complaining. It's fun, and a person could have worse pastimes, right?

Poison dragon

Mary plays Dragonvale as a way to connect with her grandson, who lives halfway around the world. I decided to introduce it to Augie and Vi. They’re a little young for it, but they love zoos and they often play at being zookeepers and building habitats with their Legos. Dragonvale is an iPad version of a big dragon zoo, or theme park.

We agreed to make decisions together as we lay out habitats, populate them with different types of dragons, and add amenities for visitors. It didn't take long for the kids to get into the game. They love buying new features, deciding where to place a restaurant or a flower bed, deciding whether to upgrade our stone path to brick. Equally fun is curating the dragon collection, choosing which fanciful types to feature.

A player can purchase "eggs" for real money, but we aren't doing that. Instead, we use "breeding caves," choosing dragon types that seem likely to produce the hybrid we seek. The process often takes a day or two in real time. We are learning patience.

To offset the built-in waits, the game provides timely visual rewards--symbolic little starbursts for example, when we collect money or harvest the food we have learned to plant continuously. And we love the tiny princesses and wizards who hurry this way and that along our paths, not to mention the imaginative dragons.

Flower dragon

By agreement, I always do a few things to move the game forward when the kids aren't here. We don't open the iPad until 11 a.m., and they never push to see it earlier, but each morning Augie asks, "What's new, Grandma? Any new dragon babies, or eggs? Any complications?"

Wait until they find out on Monday that we just qualified for a third island, which will provide space for many new kinds of dragons. And that I bought the Colosseum so we can earn gems. And maybe, if all goes well, that I will have bred a Bloom Dragon before it becomes unavailable on Monday (it's seasonal and very hard to breed).

Plant dragon

None of this makes sense to you (except to Mary). But I'm writing about it because it has captured my imagination and soaked up my time, and that's why my last post was, um, a long time ago. Oh yes, and because the kids love it.

Augie decided Friday that when he's 8, he will have his own iPad and we'll each play our own game and then compare notes. Which, in fact, is exactly what Mary and her grandson are doing. Sounds like a plan.

Remembering the Millionaire

Remember John Beresford Tipton? Michael Anthony? In the late 1950s, television's The Millionaire featured stories about ordinary folks who received a cashier's check for one million dollars. The check, issued by the wealthy Tipton, was delivered by his earnest assistant, Michael Anthony. Each recipient signed an agreement never to disclose the donor's identity except to his or her spouse.

Some of these stories had happy endings. The money helped people improve their lot, realize a dream, or get treatment for an illness. But what I remember is that most of their lives got worse. Turning up with sudden unexplained wealth made others suspicious, jealous, or even vengeful. As the Michael Anthony character explained each week, Tipton made a hobby of observing human behavior. I came to believe that he was more curious than generous, and that perhaps he expected the worst.

My mother always pointed out that money cannot buy happiness, and eventually I came to understand that happiness comes chiefly from one's way of looking at life. But I also know that sometimes a little money can make life easier, or more fun.

Peter and I play the lottery. Two actually. We buy a single ticket twice a week for the Power Ball and Mega Millions. When we started 20 years ago, we promised ourselves that ours would be a success story. We know what real happiness is. We make good decisions about money. We wouldn't let a jackpot ruin our lives. I still think that's true, despite whatever complications might come along. I doubt, for example, that he'd turn in the winning ticket and disappear with all the cash.

When we started out, I really just wanted to win the minimum jackpot, which was then $5 million before taxes, so I could retire early and we'd have some retirement security. Now the minimum Power Ball jackpot is $20 million, and besides, I'm already retired. This requires thinking a bit more creatively.

I used to say I'd buy an extra set of season tickets to the ballet--two seats for my friend Carol and me and the two in front of us to keep the view clear. Peter has simple wants: he'd have his sweatpants custom-tailored.

We figured we'd keep our comfortable little house, but joked that we'd buy out the next-door neighbors and use their (nearly identical) house for storage. And of course we'd hire some help...someone to clean, someone to help with yard and garden work, and a driver so we'd never again have to get into a stone-cold car. Peter doesn't like travel, but we did think we might keep a warm-weather condo somewhere, maybe New Orleans. Once Abby married and had children, we added new goals: we'd help Abby and Eric pay off their mortgage and set up college funds for the kids.

You can see a theme here. Basically, we've always thought in terms of keeping our lives just the same, but with a few new conveniences.

All the talk about last week's record $540 million Mega Millions jackpot got us thinking again. If we won, even the most conservative investment could provide a very nice living for the rest of our lives, and Abby's, and the grandkids.' With that much money, Abby suggested, she might want a new house with a big kitchen where she could do her cooking and baking in comfort. Peter and I could plan for a time when we might not be able to negotiate the stairs in this house, finding just the right (and slightly posh) one-story place.

Then, too, if we won big money we could support our favorite charities more dramatically. We've put nearly 25 years into saving, restoring, operating, and raising funds for the old State Fair Carousel, now known as Cafesjian's Carousel. We have a hundred volunteers every season, but we don't know how we'll replace our own commitment to the leadership of the organization (not at all a glamorous preoccupation, just a very demanding one with some intangible rewards). So if we won big we'd probably make it a priority to endow an executive director position.

I'd also give something to Macalester College, where I worked for 28 years. A room in the new fine arts facility, for example, or an endowed professorship. I admire anonymous donors, but in this case I wouldn't be one; I'd want my name--or Peter's and mine--memorialized on the campus where I worked for such a long time.

When we started playing the lottery, we chose a set of numbers based, like so many other folks, on our birth dates. For the power ball we chose a number associated with the carousel. Because we play the same numbers every week, we didn't dare NOT buy a ticket. We told friends, only half-joking, that if we didn't have a ticket and our numbers won, we'd have to kill ourselves. If we're every having to choose between lottery tickets and food or medicine, of course, all bets are off. Literally. But in the meantime it's fun to play, and fun to imagine.

The Water Waster One Thousand

We are green people. Not green as in St. Patrick's Day, but as in reduce, reuse, recycle. We stopped using chemicals on the lawn years ago. We drive so few miles you wouldn't believe how little gas we use in a year. When we needed new toilets, we did careful research and happily bought the low-flow kind, a choice we've never regretted.

Not so with the "water-efficient" front-loading washing machine we bought two years ago.

Who designed these things? I suppose they meant well, but seriously, low-water-use front-loaders require multiple cycles to get clothes clean and soap-free, and longer dryer cycles to get things dry. Not very energy- or water-efficient. On top of that, the ultra-fast spin cycle presses wrinkles into the clothes--wrinkles that don't relax in the dryer.

Peter hated our machine the first time he used it. He told Abby that whenever her washer gave up the ghost, she could have our front-loader. When that happened, he said, he'd go out and by a "Water Waster One Thousand." Whatever it took to get the laundry done both quickly and well.

We got the call a week ago; her machine had died in the middle of a load. Within hours our machine was in her basement finishing up that load.

I went online to research water-efficient top-loaders. Consumer Reports gave several of them high ratings (as it had the front-loaders two years ago). But the consumer comments presented a very different picture. Average satisfaction was two stars out of five, and quite a few people were pretty heated in their criticisms.

They cited the same complaints we had: wrinkles, clothes not getting clean or rinsed thoroughly, extra cycles costing time, money, and resources.

On top of that, it seems that the new "green" top-loaders don't have agitators. Instead they use a new type of action that rolls the clothes every few minutes and bounces them hard against the bottom of the machine in minimal water. Users reported that their clothes and linens were developing holes and wearing out faster than ever before. Water levels are determined by the machine based on the weight of the load, and you can't override the setting. 

When we went to two different appliance stores and told them what we wanted, they gave us the "well, some people just don't want to adjust to new things" line. Fortunately, our egos don't depend on the approval of sales people.

It took us no time at all to pick out a new top-loading washer from the back of the store--that's where they keep the ones with agitators and manual water-level settings. These tend to cost more, and in fact we bought one of the better models--all stainless steel, a great warranty, made right here in the Midwestern US of A.

Peter used it for the first time this afternoon. He just came up from the basement smiling. "I can watch the clothes swishing around in plenty of water, knowing they are getting clean," he said.

"I am a happy man."

Anxiety on the 9

I hate birthdays with a '9' in them. That last number in the string marks the end of one decade of life. Maybe more significant, we end our membership in a group with whom we've identified for years, and find ourselves thrust into the next-older class.

Turning 19, I knew I would soon lose my identity as a "teenager." I didn't mind, though, because entering my 20s was exciting and full of promise.

Turning 29, on the other hand, was painful. I had loved being 20-something. I was single, working hard, feeling smart, expanding my horizons. I'd enjoyed living in Milwaukee, my college town, and I'd made friends and work contacts there. After taking a few months to travel in Europe I moved to St. Paul where I'd be three hours from my family instead of 10. St. Paul people were more reserved than those in Milwaukee; networks were harder to tap into, friendships slower to develop. As I turned 29 I found myself in a town full of great things to do, but I had few friends to enjoy them with. I was stuck in a job I hated, disappointed in a recent romance, and just not quite living up to the image I'd imagined for myself. Ready or not, time for youth and hipness was winding to a close. Looming ahead was time to grow up and be mature.

By the time I turned 30, I had a much better job and a very satisfying volunteer role in an organization of women in my field, which in turn brought many new friendships. I took myself a little more seriously, and I suppose I became more mature. At any rate I got used to the new reality of being in my 30s.

Sometime during that era, I watched a male colleague turn 39. He used his office blackboard to make lists of goals unfulfilled and talked nonstop about his dread of this birthday (something I had kept to myself, by the way). I expected even more drama when he turned 40, but there was almost none. That's when I realized that the 9s really are the ones to watch out for.

My birthdays have pretty much followed that pattern ever since. Anxiety on the 9, acceptance on the 0--with the possible exception of 60. I wasn't ready to be 60, so I was very quiet about my birthday that year. Now here I am at another 9, thinking I should have appreciated being only 60. It's not that I haven't fulfilled my goals. It's not even that 70 is impossibly old. It's just that I'm not used to the idea of me being 70. That's what the coming year is about...getting used to my new age-identity.

I was born at 2:10 a.m. on March 11. Ironically, this year March 11 is the day we go back on Daylight Savings Time. Theoretically at 2 a.m. everyone changes their clocks to 3 a.m., thus eliminating the hour I was born. I'm not worried, though.

I am entering the last year of being "in my 60s" and, in fact, I'm beginning my 70th year. As hard as that is to comprehend, I'm celebrating. For a week. Bring it on.