How Baby Boomers Became Mobile Device Addicts Like Gen Z

A boy excitedly shows an old radio he found at an antique mall to an elderly man sitting in a chair, who is smiling and holding a smartphone. A dog rests on the floor nearby.

I saw a segment on the NBC Evening News saying Baby Boomers are becoming just as addicted to their mobile devices as Gen Z.

I don’t know why that’s surprising.

We Boomers have been connected since puberty.

When I was in junior high, I called a radio station, and for being the first to know that the Nile is the longest river in the world, I won a generic transistor radio in a brown leather case. I carried that little radio everywhere, listening to the Beatles through a single mono earphone.

Today’s teenagers walk around with wireless earbuds.

A vintage transistor radio, red and silver in color, with a volume control and an earphone connected, next to a black carrying case.

I blocked out the world with a transistor radio and a wire hanging out of my ear.

Same addiction. Better sound.

My grandmother later brought home a battery-operated Sony Micro TV from a vacation in Japan. She brought it on picnics so my grandfather could watch baseball.

A collection of vintage electronics including a black leather camera bag, a brown camera, a small vintage Sony television with a retractable antenna, and additional accessories laid on a floral patterned fabric.

We took television with us on family outings before anyone had heard of streaming.

In the 1970s, I majored in science. The curriculum expected to do math. Texas Instruments introduced one of the first handheld electronic calculators. The school banned them from the classroom.

We had to do the calculations with a slide rule, pencil, and paper.

Educators already knew where this would be headed, and still do. In my CU intergenerational writing class, the department established ground rules for AI use. All the writing assignments are composed by hand in class.

Cover of an IBM Mag Card II Typewriter operating instructions manual featuring the typewriter on a table and a data processor unit or card reader beside it.

When I entered the workforce in 1977, the City of Gillette used Fortran-sized magnetic cards to store correspondence that could be typed on an IBM Selectric typewriter at the push of a button.

When I moved to Lander, I was in charge and convinced the city to buy a Lanier word processor that stored information on proprietary floppy disks. I had a DOS-based computer that ran Word Perfect without Windows.

A vintage portable electronic typewriter with a built-in LCD screen and a QWERTY keyboard.

I also wrote for the local Lander newspaper. In the late 1980s, the paper had networked Macintosh Model SE computers together and published digitally.

I got my first laptop, a TRS-80 Model 100 and an external hard drive.

This was cutting-edge technology.

The dot-matrix printer sounded like a small appliance factory every time you printed a page.

Then America Online started mailing its internet software on CDs. The newspaper office had a telephone modem cradle, and we could transmit stories electronically.

A package containing an AOL Gold Mini-ROM CD, featuring a promotional offer for 100 free hours of internet access, highlighting compatibility with Windows and Macintosh.

Remember the sound of a dial-up connection?

Rheeeeeee!

A miracle.

By the 1990s, I was living in Boulder, where Indra was an early internet service provider. I got my first email account. It’s now out of business, but I still use my adoecos handle on Yahoo! 

Technology accelerated.

In the early 1990s, I bought a bulky Nokia 101, then upgraded to a 1011. It could send text messages, although “user-friendly” would not have been the first phrase that came to mind.

An old-fashioned mobile phone with a flip-out keypad and a green screen displaying various functions and options.

In 2001, I switched to a Kyocera. It had a flip-down keyboard that exposed a screen where I could use a stylus to select apps and scribble emails using Kyocera’s graffiti shorthand. 

By 2004, I had moved on to a Palm with a camera and an actual keyboard.

I’ll stop there, because this list could get ridiculous.

The transistor radio became the smartphone.

The mono Beatles earphone became AirPods.

A close-up of a Palm Treo smartphone displaying its main menu, featuring icons for various applications such as Calendar, Contacts, and Facebook.

The Sony Micro TV became streaming video.

The calculator became a personal computer.

The magnetic card became the cloud.

The telephone modem became Wi-Fi.

We Boomers didn’t discover technology. We kept upgrading analog versions of it, and ourselves.

Like kids today, my information flow sped up as a teenager. The difference is that Gen Z was born into the digital revolution and didn’t have to wait.

We Boomers had a front-row seat to it all.

Since doomsdayers predict AI will bring the end of humankind, I’ll dig out a transistor radio and listen to the Beatles when World War III starts.

Wonder Woman, Dolly Parton, and Gloria Steinem

A couple of days ago, I sorted through my last box of autographed baseballs, and I found another artifact I’d forgotten about. Behind the printer and a 1962 “Life” magazine with a Roger Maris – Mickey Mantle Post cereal baseball card insert, I found my first edition of “Ms.” magazine.

The cover with the headline “Wonder Woman for President” threw me back to 1972.

Here’s another case of uncanny timing. The night before, a neighbor asked if I’d set up a projector in my Silver Sage Village community courtyard to screen “9 to 5,” the 1980 comedy starring Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin, and the late Dolly Parton.

Three women fed up with a sexist boss turn the tables, take control of the company, and change the workplace. It’s slapstick funny and a pretty good primer on workplace misogyny.

Then I read in my Yahoo! news feed that Gloria Steinem had died at 92.

Steinem and others founded “Ms.” The magazine in my collection seemed a lot more significant than it had the day before. I read the table of contents and flipped through the pages. The country had changed, but much of it hasn’t.

The first regular issue of “Ms.” appeared in July 1972. It began as a preview inserted into “New York” magazine in December 1971. That preview sold 300,000 copies, generating thousands of subscription orders and letters. The response showed that the world had seriously underestimated what women wanted to read about.

The women’s magazines of the day largely revolved around fashion, beauty, marriage, children, and how to keep everybody else happy. “Ms.” treated women as citizens and political actors, not just consumers.

Steinem stood at the center of it.

She wore several hats in the startup. She had to be a businesswoman, a strong writer, a savvy political activist, and one of second-wave feminism’s most recognizable figures.

Steinem believed that the feminist movement needed a national publication where women’s experiences and political ideas could be taken seriously.

She and the magazine editors wanted Wonder Woman on the first cover as a symbol of female strength and independence.

At the time, DC Comics had stripped Wonder Woman of her superpowers and put her into a more conventional secret-agent role. DC restored Wonder Woman’s powers and traditional identity.

“Ms.” chose Wonder Woman to make a point about what happens when a powerful woman is made less powerful.

Inside the first issue, Steinem wrote an article with the provocative title “Women Voters Can’t Be Trusted.” Steinem took on the conventional political wisdom that women were unreliable, politically passive, or voted the way the men in their lives told them to vote.

In the article, Steinem argues that society misunderstood and underestimated women voters. She encourages women to discover their political power.

The political world looked very different in the 1970s when only 15 women served in Congress. No woman had been a major-party presidential or vice-presidential nominee. Democrat Shirley Chisholm changed all that when the Congresswoman became the first African American woman to run for president.

I learned that “Ms.” named Dolly Parton one of its “Women of the Year” in 1987. Steinem praised Parton for infusing feminism into her music and for celebrating women who made their own way. You can hear that spirit in “Just Because I’m a Woman,” “9 to 5,” and “Travelin’ Man,” the theme for “Transamerica.”

Parton gave voice to women’s independence, working lives, and the double standards they faced. Steinem observed that Dolly didn’t give political speeches but walked the talk through her song lyrics.

My copy of “Ms.” had survived, tucked away among baseball memorabilia.

That’s appropriate.

Baseball is all statistics, records, and arguments by armchair coaches about who belongs in the lineup. In 1972, women had no records to compare and had to battle to get through the turnstiles.

Gloria Steinem spent her life arguing that women belonged in the seats and in the field, diving for hard-hit line drives.

Dolly, Gloria, and Wonder Woman for MVP!

The Emotional Journey of Swedish Death Cleaning

Today I drove a carload of boxes to Laramie and made the final major delivery for my Swedish death-cleaning project.

One destination was the American Heritage Center at the University of Wyoming in Laramie. The boxes contained decades of my life: research materials, hard drives, scrapbooks, manuscripts, photographs, films, books, and assorted records from projects that occupied countless hours over the years.

A separate box held watercolor paintings my mother created. Those went to the Laramie Plains Museum. Some will become part of the museum’s collection, while others will help support its mission through fundraising auctions.

As I handed everything over, I found myself experiencing mixed emotions. The handoff took all of 10 minutes.

Kind of anticlimactic, considering I’ve been sorting and sifting since the Wyoming Writers Inc. conference at the beginning of June. AHC staffer Brie Blasi asked if I’d donate my stuff.

Part of me felt a sense of relief. My materials are no longer stacked in closets, on shelves, and in corners, waiting for me to decide their fate. They now have a permanent home where they can be organized, preserved, and, if anyone finds value in them, used by future researchers, historians, students, or curious people.

Another part of me felt a touch of sadness. Every box represented a chapter of my life. The manuscripts reflected ideas I chased. The photographs captured moments that seemed important enough to save. The films documented stories and people I believed should be remembered. Letting go of them felt a little like saying goodbye to old companions.

Yet there was also comfort in knowing that I have not really lost them. If I ever need to revisit a project, confirm a memory, or look up some forgotten detail from my past life, I can make the trip to Laramie and review the materials. They are stored in a different place now.

This delivery marked the culmination of a process that has taken years. Along the way, I sold my grandmother’s Sony micro TV and Star Wars action figures I used for gender bias training. Colleagues purchased my sports card and political memorabilia collections. Other items found new homes through donations and gifts.

I hope the people who have received my stuff enjoy it. All my items spent years, sometimes decades, in my care. Collections are curious pursuits. We think we own them, but we’re only temporary caretakers. Eventually they move on to the next person, carrying their stories with them.

There’s little left. Some clothes. Some shoes. A few personal possessions. My car. The essentials.

I’m an organ donor. I imagine those will make it into worthy sick people if my parts aren’t too worn out.

What surprised me most about Swedish death cleaning is that it was never really about getting rid of stuff. It’s about deciding what mattered and what stories deserved a future beyond my shelves and storage boxes.

The works my mother painted will now have lives of their own. Some may hang on walls where people who never knew her will pause for a moment and admire her work. Others may help support a museum dedicated to preserving local history. In their own way, they will continue telling part of her story.

The same is true of the boxes I delivered. The manuscripts, photographs, films, and research materials represent a lifetime of curiosity and creativity. Long after I am gone, someone may open a folder, examine a photograph, watch a film, or read a manuscript and discover a small piece of the world as I saw it.

There is something comforting about that.

For years, I thought I was collecting things. Today, I realized I was collecting stories.

Now those stories belong to the future.

As I sit at an EV charging station writing this, listening to Jalan Jalan Crossland on Wyoming Public Radio & Media, I feel a sense of peace. My mother’s work has found a home. My work has found a home. The burden of holding on is replaced by the satisfaction of passing it all forward.

My final act of stewardship is not keeping material objects forever.

It’s about making sure they can continue their journey without me and not end up in the landfill.