I like to think of personal IDs as portals. Traveling through time does offer unusual portals. When I was very young I was identified as that little girl that always succeeded in getting in to trouble, but rarely ever knew how to get out of it.

As I grew a little older I was tacked as “That Child” I was the ring leader forever in hot pursuit of one adventure or another. What made matters worse was that I was a “Girl Child”. I was at home where ever there was dirt to play in and animals to capture. I was the only kid on the block with an excellent team of horse flies; two in harness and six to spare. They were all properly tied by wing or leg, secured by a fine thread in my mother’s favorite geraniums. When my mother bent over to check the plants for water, the team spooked along with the six spare horseflies. My mother didn’t think that was funny.

I reached another portal when I became a rebel. It wasn’t really my fault. I had a real need for knowing Why What Where When Who and How. My world allowed little space for curiosity and demanded unconditional obedience.

The war made me a survivor. I became an emigrant before I became an immigrant, a war bride, mother of three children and an American citizen.

The kids were still in their teens when I became a student, a teacher, a member of Mensa. I was my husband’s wife, the daughter-in-law; Alva’s little souvenir he brought back from over yonder.

I became the mother-in-law, and sooner than I was ready the grandmother. I was friend, cousin, and sometimes respected foe. Great-grandmother was not long in following. Throughout this passage of a tumultuous life I kept on accumulating information; some useful; some negligible, and some funny, good enough for a few laughs.

Last week I acquired a new identity, a new label so to speak. The girl at the checkout counter in the grocery store smiled at me sweetly and explained what I could and couldn’t do and finished off with: “There you are Sweetie!” After the third or fourth SWEETY I was willing to inquire what a SWEETY was. The young person and I were not on intimate terms. As a matter of fact I hadn’t been aware of her existence prior to that point in time. I duly noted that she made change by allowing the computer to tell her how much money I had coming. Before she could come out with one more SWEETIE I smiled and asked her:

“Do you know if this is the correct change without looking at the numbers in front of you?”

The person behind me smiled and said very quietly:” You’ll have to explain that to her before she can answer.”

That was the last SWEETIE I heard. I would have dismissed the whole affair had I not visited Clarence. Clarence and I are good friends. For years he has helped me through countless computer clitches and now I have the opportunity to help him. I asked him: “Why would the girl at the check-out counter call me sweetie?” Clarence was quiet for a moment. Then the expression on his face changed from puzzled to sober.

“That’s what they call us here,” he responded. Clarence is presently at Culpepper, a facility for assisted living. Clarence has difficulty with being dependent on others. There is no doubt that I would feel the same way. He paused and then continued: “They don’t care what you know or what you’ve accomplished in your life. To them you’re a number, a customer, a patient and they think they’re doing you a favor when they call you SWEETIE.”

I thought about my own grandmother. I probably would have found myself smacked solidly across whatever face I presented. Where I came from there was that unwritten law that demanded that age is to be treated with respect. Age, after all, is something that comes to all of us. Those who came before us kept us alive with their knowledge and their skills. Those who come after us are kept alive by us. The question is what will become of our culture, our civilization when we reduce the individual to a statistic on a sheet of paper. Are we becoming a mindless society sans value, resorting to meaningless platitudes without substance? Are we just another item on a menu? And when the word MENU entered my mind I had the answer for the next SWEETIE. Perhaps the girl was actually able to make change without the computer’s assistance; miracles do happen. There was just one minor problem with that picture. The girl was young and grossly overweighed. Barring the possibility of a disease there is only one other thing that could cause obesity. I would not have to say anything to her. I could just smile at her and deep with in the recesses of my mind inquire silently:

“Exactly how many ways can you spell McDonald?”