My father is 88 years old. He lives in a condo in Ft. Lauderdale. His life isn't glorious. He goes fishing once a month, plays cards one night a week, and takes naps daily. In between, he watches a lot of t.v.

So I was worried about him, and it occurred to me, maybe I could get him interested in a computer. His mind is still sharp. He used to type when I was a boy. I remember that. He would make up stories to tell my brother and me. Some of them were darn good. So, we asked him to tell them over and over. When he got bored, he typed them up and made us read them. I remember that.

I called him on the phone. He must have just got up from a nap. I could hear the t.v. on in the background. "HI, pop. How you doing?"

"How could I be doing? I just missed, my soap opera" he said.

"Ah, Pop. I'm sorry."

"Don't feel bad. I taped it. Automatically."

"You tape your soap operas?" I asked. I know I sounded incredulous.

"You think I want to be trapped in this stinking condo every day, just to see a soap opera?" he answered. "I'm not trapped. I watch them when it's convenient. Sometimes, even out or cycle. It doesn't matter. I can always predict who's going to die and who's going to get pregnant."

It seemed like my perfect lead. "Pop, that's funny. I was thinking about you and the stories you used to tell us when we were kids. Remember? You always were a great story teller, but as kids, we could never predict how your stories would come out. You always fooled us."

"I was pretty good. I liked telling you kids stories. You were always appreciative. You would coax and coax. Finally, you remember, I got fed up and I typed them out and said, 'go read them to yourself."'

"Oh, I do remember, Pop. Whatever happened to those stories? How I would love to see them again."

He waited a long time before he answered. "They went with your mother. I don't know where she stored them. When she died, I just threw things out. All kinds of things. I had to do that. Ghosts were everywhere." His voice skipped a beat. "I never wrote about ghosts. I didn't know how to handle them."

"I know, Pop. I know," I said. I couldn't think or anything else to say to him. It had been 10 years. The grief still overcame him. My brother and I were careful not to mention her much. It could sink him for days.

I tried to brighten my voice. "Pop, I have a great idea. I think you should try to recapture some of those stories. I'm going to bring you down a computer when I come visit. We have this extra one at the office, and I'll have a couple of days to get you up and running. You'll love it. I know I do. And my enthusiasm will rub off on you."

His answer was, "She kept my stories in a brown cardboard box. She loved my stories. She was so proud when I typed them up for you kids."

I phoned him two more times after that. He never mentioned any interest in the computer or the stories. But I was determined. It became an obsession. So, when it came time for my annual visit, I packed up that extra XT that no one was using at the office. It had a small green monitor. I bought a little dot matrix printer that was on sale and checked the three boxes in at the ticket counter.

"What's in the boxes?" the agent asked.

"A computer, a monitor and a printer," I answered. "They're for my old father. He used to be a writer."

"Aren't you a doll," she said. "I'm a writer, too, but no one is giving me a computer."

"Well, if it doesn't make it through Atlanta, he won't have one either, I joked.

She laughed. "Hmm. Maybe I could ticket it in a way that it will never get through Atlanta and then I can go claim it."

"Now, that would make a story," I said.

"Nah, she said. "Luggage mis?ticketed and never making it through Atlanta is not fiction. That's a fact."

We both laughed. I signed the release. I got my seat assignment and went on board. The flight was smooth. I made some notes on what I would teach my father about wordprocessing: In what ways wordprocessing was like using a typewriter and how it was different. I'd show him how to save, how to recall a document, how to delete, and, of course, how to print out. Later on I would show him how to block and cut and move, how to number pages, how to run the spell checker and whatever else a budding writer would need to know. I was getting excited to see him.

It was a smooth landing in Ft. Lauderdale, smoother than the one in Atlanta. I hoped the old XT had been bubble packed adequately, and that it would arrive in only three pieces.

Imagine my surprise, when I saw my 88 year old father standing down at the luggage carousel, waiting for me. Our usual plan was for me to catch a cab that would take me to him at condo-ville.

"Surprise, big shot. I got us a limosine. After all, if I'm getting a computer because I'm going to become a famous writer, I figured a limosine was a cheap investment. I almost called the media." He laughed, and I could feel his belly shake when I hugged him, and he kept laughing at how clever he was. "I didn't acknowledge your computer idea, because I was too excited, and I wanted my limosine pickup to be a real surprise for you, anyhow." I hugged him again, and he kept belly shaking. He was so tickled with himself.

The three computer boxes were there, seemingly unharmed. I mounted them on my trusty wheels and we rolled out to the limo. Pop was in charge. He gave clear directions and we both settled back into the luxurious cushions, joking and laughing all the way to the condo. We were glad to be together. He paid the driver and I knew he would give him a nice tip.

We, rode the elevator talking animatedly. His apartment sparkled. He always keeps his things clean and orderly. Although I thought I would take him out for dinner, I could see the table was set. "You'll notice. We're eating in. I barbecued this chicken, me and the deli. and I made a salad and tapioca pudding, what with a little help from the same deli. so we're all set. Anyhow, I want to learn the computer."

Who could argue with him. So, together, we unpacked the boxes, I borrowed a small screw driver and screwed in the monitor and the printer cables. He watched closely. I could see he would know how to do it next time. He was like that. I (lid show him the printer cable and the tapered shape of the metal shell.

"Only goes one way?" he asked. I nodded.

Before I had left, I had checked what software was on the little XT. I knew it had a 20 meg hard drive, and surprisingly, it was quite complete. It had Wordperfect 4.2, the way all of us in the office had it before we changed to 5.0. All of our machines had Wordperfect's "Library" on them, and this was no exception. Before I left, I had entered my PCFile + and I had written him a little database for his addresses and phone numbers. One night, I had put in all of his grandkids and the few relatives he had not outlived. He could add to the database when he had time. Oh, there was also the office copy of "Hotline," but without a modem that wouldn't help him much.

"O.k, Mr. Computerman, boot it up and let's see what you got," he said.

I looked at him increduously, "Pop, where did you learn to say that?.... "

"You think you're the only one who knows computer? I got a friend. Of course, he has a 386 machine, but he promised not to look down his nose at me with my XT." I hugged him, and that belly just kept shaking with laughter.

So I did boot the machine up. I showed him how to enter Wordperfect off the Library shell, and how to start typing right away.

"Which key saves what I write," he asked?

I told him. "And when I want it back?" I showed him that, and how to save his things in some order. I recommended Itr for letters. str for stories and pas for passionate love letters. He laughed. He got the hang of *. faster than I ever did. Maybe I'm a better teacher, but I doubt it. He was a natural.

"So, O.K., I'm going to write. Let me be now. O.k.?" he asked.

I kissed him on the top if his head and said, "Go to it, Hemmingway."

"The name is Laura Ingalls Wilder, and I'm knocking out 'The Little House on the Prairies of Brooklyn.' Now get out of here. I'll call you if I need anything."

An hour later he came out of the computer room, and he looked 5 years younger. I mean, it was shocking. Five years. Creases that had etched his face were GONE. Bags under his tired eyes had vanished. I mean, this was eerie. I was speechless.

"I'm ready to print. Come show me how to print what I've written," he said.

All I could say was, "Dad, you look great. You look, somehow, you look,"

He finished my sentence. "Younger," he said. "I've found the fountain of youth. It's called computer. Now, come show me how to print."

I wrote the printing commands out for him on a 3 by 5 card. He caught on right away. So, I showed him how to number pages, and we wrote that down on a 3 by 5 card, too. The printer started to chatter, and he shooed me away.

I went out onto the screened in porch and started reading one of the books I had brought down. It was a novel, and it caught my interest. I was into Chapter three when my dad emerged. My God, I thought. He looks even younger. His silver hair had gone black!

"So, don't look so shocked. I finished my story. Here it is. You remember the "Freckled Knight?"

"Oh, Pops," I said. "You rewrote the Freckled Knight? I am so touched."

"It was easy. I like this word processor thing. It's like it makes the typewriter seem primitive. I feel so young. Young like when I first told you and your brother about the Freckled Knight. I remembered so clearly in there why I wrote the story in the first place. What, are we talking. 60 years ago?"

"Probably more like 55, pop. I was in the first grade."

"And some stupid bully kid was picking on you because you had freckles. And you hated them. You wanted me to rub them off, or get something from your mother to cover them up with. I remember."

I went over to him, and put my arms around him. "You were so good, Pops. You made up this story to make me appreciate my freckles. And you know what, I have loved them ever since. Because or you.,, "Not because of me. They come from your mother's side. The whole family was a bunch of freckled knights," he said.

"You know what I mean. Because of you I came to love my freckles. Because of you."

He raised his hands as if to keep it from getting too sentimental. "Here's the story. I still need a little help with figuring out what you backspace and what you use delete for, so it's not perfect, but not bad for the first time out on a computer, huh?"

I looked at the page, and turned it into the light, and gave it my competent face. "Not bad, not bad at all for a 70 year old." He grinned. I don't think he had seen his black hair yet. Nor had he had a view of missing wrinkles. But he grinned, anyhow. "I got to go back to my computer. I want to get down on paper another one I told you boys."

"Which one, Pop. Which one?" I excitedly asked.

And as he had done, so often when we were young, he said, "Hold your pants on. Don't you like a little surprise?"

"of course, Pops. of course. But you're in for one, yourself." I said.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You'll see. You're not the only one who knows how to set up a limosine, or do something to surprise people with, Pops. You just wait. Are you going to be surprised."

He went back into the computer, and for another hour he banged away at the computer. I read "The Freckled Knight" and tears welled up in my eyes. He had recaptured it with all of its tender nuances. When my eyes dried, I read some more of my novel, and then I heard the printer singing along. He came out trailing another printout. And, believe it or not, he was another 10 years younger. I saw it first in his smile. It was not his 88 year old choppers. It was the big buck teeth I remembered when we were kids and he was young. And the folds at his neck, were gone. He had grown really young.

"So, how did you like the 'Freckled Knight' my bucko?" he asked. If you liked it, wait until you read my newest version of "Sparky the Firefly." You remember Sparky' I hope?" He was bucktoothed grinning from ear to ear.

"Pops, this is a miracle." I said.

"A miracle that I should remember these stories?" he asked. I knew he hadn't looked into the mirror yet.

"Yes, that's it, Pops. That's it." I said.

He turned to go back into the computer room. "I want to get one more done before I take my nap," he said. "It's burning in me. It'll be a piece of cake to get out."

"Which one, Pop?" I asked.

"Hold your pants on. You'll see. just wait. Get a little patience. You want to grow up without the capacity to wait?"

"Not me, Pops. I can wait. You go get 'em. I can hardly wait, but I know I can. In the meantime, I'll read Sparky. And I'll tell you that 'The Freckled Knight' made me cry," I said.

"I told you were talking to an accomplished writer, now also a professional computer wordprocessor. Just wait. You ain't seen nothing yet."

He turned and went back to his computer. I could hear the keys lightly clicking, faster and crisper. I imagined the story lighting up his little green screen. And I pictured his young race glowing in the green light.

About a half later, after I had read 'Sparky' and my eyes welled up with tears again, he came out. The printer won't print. I heard a little bell sound, and now the printer won't print.

My face must have gone ghostly white. He looked exactly the way he used to look when I was a first grader. Exactly. My month hung open. He looked at me and became agitated.

"What's the matter. Did I break the computer? Did I do something wrong? Can it be fixed?"

"No, Pops. Nothing with the computer. Well, maybe it has to do with the computer. But the printer's not broken. You've just been writing up such a storm you used up all the paper I had put out for you. That bell was the printer telling you you are out of paper. I can fix it in a jiffy."

"Oh, your face. You made me think I had broken an expensive computer for good. Don't scare me like that. My heart can't take it." And he laughed.

I kept staring at him. He was so young. We went back into the computer room. I showed him how to load the continuous feed paper, and when he entered the print command, it chattered along so happily. He forgot I was there. He was busy reading the new story as it came off the printer. I looked over his shoulder. This is what he had written. The Fountain of Youth

By: Frank Simon

I have found the fountain of youth. It has 104 keys. I counted them. I have learned to use most of them. I stay away from the key that says "End." It's the one I fear the most.

The fountain of youth is available to any older person. If your son gives you a computer, it is the best way to get one. If you have stories to write, the fountain of youth works most miraculously.

I know because, I found it. And yes, my son, I looked in the mirror. It works. It is true. I am just the way you remembered me when you were a little kid. If you sit in my lap, I will read the 'Freckled Knight' to you.

The printer said more. After all, it was his story. But put my arms around his waist, and I held him tight. Then, I picked him up, his frail bones weighed so little, and I carried him to the couch, and sat him in my lap, and then I read him out loud, first 'The Freckled Knight' and then "Sparky the Firefly' and we cried together. Those were moments so precious I will never forget them.

The next day his hair got gray again. The choppers returned, and so did the wrinkles. I guess when you're 88, you can't stay forever young.

Nevertheless, I'll tell you something. You can believe it or not. But every time he goes into that computer room, works on one of his old stories for us old kids of his, he comes out looking 10 or 20 and sometimes 30 years younger. He did rind the fountain or youth. So what if it isn't permanent? What does it matter if those buck teeth I love are only temporary? They are what they are.

The only thing we now pray for is that he postpones as long as possible using that "end" key. Pops, welcome to the Fountain of Youth of the New Age.

- The End -