Jenks vs Blinkie

Plant People

By Jenks Farmer

“Then, from our microwaving our popcorn until Daddy’s death, not much changed. But that milestone brought with it hardwired video doorbells and a security system (courtesy Blink Smart Security, aka Blinkie). Benign, behind-the-scenes things such as light switches and microwaves worked when someone pushed a button or made a crashing noise. We spoke through them, not to them and, assuredly, they didn’t have names . . . such as ‘Blinkie.’ But, given the technology-fueled boiling pot of frogs in which we now find ourselves, Blinkie was bound to show up. I tried to give Blinkie to Weasa, my sister.”—Jenks Farmer

COLUMBIA South Carolina—(Hubris)—March/April 2026—If Daddy were still around, I wouldn’t even have this thing. But his death led to the utter absurdity of AI attempting “to interpret” the doings at this old farm. 

There is a definite pattern to technology upgrades around here: In 1750, the house was built; in 1850, a hydraulic ram pump was added to provide running water to the kitchen (Rams are ancient technology, but they weren’t common in America, so whoever came up with this was a visionary.); in 1900, the kitchen was moved indoors and an indoor bathroom was added; in 1940, one electrical outlet and one light bulb were added in most rooms; in 1974, Daddy got a TV and a stereo (but only John Phillips Sousa was allowed); and, in 1976, we got a microwave (Obviously, the pattern accelerated in the 1970s: we were early adopters).

Then, from our microwaving our popcorn until Daddy’s death, not much changed. But that milestone brought with it hardwired video doorbells and a security system (courtesy Blink Smart Security, aka Blinkie). Benign, behind-the-scenes things such as light switches and microwaves worked when someone pushed a button or made a crashing noise. We spoke through them, not to them and, assuredly, they didn’t have names . . . such as “Blinkie.” But, given the technology-fueled boiling pot of frogs in which we now find ourselves, Blinkie was bound to show up. 

I tried to give Blinkie to Weasa, my sister.

“No way,” she said. When my older sister says no way, she really needn’t add anything else, but she always does. 

“I know what you and your friends did in that barn. I don’t want to see my own children, loose chickens, or that donkey pop up on video on my phone.”

“But you’d know if Momma falls,” I say.

“She’d call me! Actually, she’d call you. Then you’d call me and tell me not to worry. So much better this way. You keep it.” She was done with the discussion, but it triggered a memory, so she added, “Remember that time you fell off the back of the truck, and I didn’t tell anyone till we were a mile down the road?”

Every time she tells this big sister-unfortunate little brother story, she breaks into hysterical laughter precisely at this point, and I know right now she’s wishing she had the scene on Blinkie video.

Weasa manages a lot of our family stuff. She’s very practical but never afraid to laugh at her little brother’s expense.

So, Blinkie became my friend. I

It used to send me just simple little buzzes, which I’d check a few times a day. Friends noticed all the buzzing, but they just thought it showed I was important enough to get a lot of texts. That was fine. Blinkie and I had things set so I could detect a strange car or a fall without invading anyone’s privacy. Peace of mind!

But suddenly, last week, a note accompanied the Blinkie buzz. I’d get the buzz and then: “A black dog is running across a paved area.”

Why, Blinkie, there isn’t a paved area for a mile. Also, wtf are you texting me for? And when did you start texting?

I tapped the tiny video on my phone. “That’s a dirt driveway!” I said, out loud.

Then another message landed: “Do you enjoy the new AI helpful notation text? I can send them as voice notes, too. Would you enjoy that?”

I tap no but I say, “HELL, NO!!!”

Blinkie: “A black dog is opening the back door.”

Me: “Yeah, she does that. That’s enough. You’re trying too hard, pal.”

Blinkie: “A person is washing a board in the kitchen.”

Me: “No way! Everyone knows to keep construction projects outside. Show me who’s doing that. They are in trouble. You’re stressing me out.”

Blinkie: “A Person is sweeping in the driveway.”

Me: “Please! No one has swept that yard since 1972. B, I did all those picture puzzles, all that clicking of bicycles, and street lights, and you can’t tell a broom from a rake!?”

Blinkie: “A white horse is standing by a colorful flag.”

I imagine My Little Pony Unicorn leaping over the crinum field. 

Me: “Blinkie. That’s a fucking dwarf donkey and a blue tarp.”

Blinkie: “There is a boy carrying a cat by its head.”

At this point, I switched the entire phone off. It’s like living with Alf. Not helpful. Tomorrow, young Chance will fix this or Blinkie is dead. How much is this costing anyway? In energy, water, and pollution? And in my peace of mind? I need quiet to write.

My sister was right. Several of my best, most curious, and bulletproof farm friends and I are very glad that Daddy didn’t have some 70s version of Blinkie, especially not if the “news” transmitted was to be written down. But then, Sis, I can hear dirt-road-country-1974 Blinkie now: “A long-haired hippie boy and teenage girl are smoking a big doobie behind the bus.”

Me: “Yeah, you got that right!”

An upgrade I forgot to mention earlier was that we did acquire a full-sized, yellow school bus back in the 70s.