Lena scrolled down a few more notches, then stopped. The icons were now the size of postage stamps. Perfect. The desktop looked like a neat little city from above.
She turned to him, serious now. “No. It’s not just a shortcut. It’s knowing that things can change. That something that’s bothering you doesn’t have to stay that way. All you need is someone to show you which button to hold.”
Lena had never thought of herself as a technology person. At sixty-three, she used her desktop computer for three things: emailing her daughter in Seattle, checking the weather, and playing Solitaire when the afternoon got too quiet. But lately, something had begun to bother her. The icons on her screen—the little folders, the recycling bin, the shortcut to her photo album—seemed to be multiplying like rabbits. And they were enormous. how to make desktop items smaller
“If that’s what they’re called.”
And that night, before bed, she sent an email to her daughter. The subject line read: Guess what I learned to do today. Lena scrolled down a few more notches, then stopped
Leo sighed dramatically, the way only teenagers can, and padded over. “What’s up, Grams?”
“Now—while holding Ctrl—scroll your mouse wheel. Scroll down.” The desktop looked like a neat little city from above
“These… pictures. The little ones. They’re too big. I can’t fit anything on the screen. I want to make them smaller, but I’m afraid I’ll break something.”
Lena scrolled down a few more notches, then stopped. The icons were now the size of postage stamps. Perfect. The desktop looked like a neat little city from above.
She turned to him, serious now. “No. It’s not just a shortcut. It’s knowing that things can change. That something that’s bothering you doesn’t have to stay that way. All you need is someone to show you which button to hold.”
Lena had never thought of herself as a technology person. At sixty-three, she used her desktop computer for three things: emailing her daughter in Seattle, checking the weather, and playing Solitaire when the afternoon got too quiet. But lately, something had begun to bother her. The icons on her screen—the little folders, the recycling bin, the shortcut to her photo album—seemed to be multiplying like rabbits. And they were enormous.
“If that’s what they’re called.”
And that night, before bed, she sent an email to her daughter. The subject line read: Guess what I learned to do today.
Leo sighed dramatically, the way only teenagers can, and padded over. “What’s up, Grams?”
“Now—while holding Ctrl—scroll your mouse wheel. Scroll down.”
“These… pictures. The little ones. They’re too big. I can’t fit anything on the screen. I want to make them smaller, but I’m afraid I’ll break something.”