Footprints in the Windsm # 1893
At the potluck picnic yesterday, I did not, as intended, speak out loud the question, “What does in mean to be human?” Yet I received a response. It left me closer to the question, “What can it mean?”
I brought in food—then took the baskets back to the car to get them out of our way, and out of remembering about them—overheard a couple telling about their trip to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula—we talked about their exchange student—he was big on sports and they were not—he preferred spending time with other foreign exchange students rather than his designated surrogate family—we spoke of their son’s interest in firefighting and his next school year which would include ride-along times with EMTs—and whether he would like the emergencies and blood and all—and whether he had the muscle strength to do the job of a firefighter—I got some lemonade—people came in and out—the conversation went back to the U.P.–another couple is planning to visit there in a month or two—I asked about Painted Rocks, Lake Kit-iti-kipi, the Keweenaw Peninsula—in passing—one man was hungry so we uncovered the food and I mixed up and finished prepping my salads.
I moved into the dining room and talked with a couple and a single man who were talking about the latest political debates and candidates.
After that I got something to eat and sat at the kitchen table with another group of people and we had a lively and desultory conversation, lighthearted, joking, remembering old songs.
Then I went outside and sat at another table and listened to the host tell about his days in the aerospace industry working among engineers—another man came up and the topic switched to boats, from 50 footers people lived on to 17 footers to canoes—then to fishing and the different segments of the St. Joseph River—that group fell apart and we went to where the children were playing, and another man and I identified some of the plants as poison ivy, so that stopped the ball game.
Then I moved to the table on the deck where the 10 or 12 remaining people were talking—about picking cherries and blueberries and strawberries—about putting up and preserving foods—about knitting and crocheting and needlepoint.
Then someone said to his or her spouse, “It is about time we got going” and pretty much everybody got up to start packing up the remaining food and saying goodbyes and thank yous to the hosts.
So this is what it means to be human. This is the kind of role that machines and algorithms will not take over. What is the long-term value of this humanicity?
