We do still have a land line. I know, I know—so old school. I’ve been an advocate of getting rid of it, but I’m told it’s not that easy, as it is “bundled” with our wifi and TV. The tech department in this household not being in my purview, I don’t understand a thing about it. “Bundled” is how I dress in the winter, generally followed by the preposition “up,” and that’s the extent of my knowledge of the matter.
Hence, it appears we are stuck with the land line, even though it rings thirty times a day with solicitation calls, the majority cunningly arriving while we’re making or eating meals or in the bathroom. We look at the screen. A call from Sodom, Pennsylvania. Another from Gomorrah, California. Washington, D.C. again: it’s the Dems, don’t answer it. We already gave them money. Any call that gives a city and state as its I.D. is totally to be ignored, as are those that say, “wireless caller” or “name unavailable.” “If you’re unavailable, so are we,” Phil says. In short, we never answer the land line.
Once in a great while, there’s a genuine call. “Wow,” look at that, I exclaim. “It’s Richard.” Sometimes we are so flustered by such an event, that by the time we answer, Richard has assumed we’re dead and hung up.
As for the cell phones, Phil never turns his on, so even talking about that is a waste of words. It is all I can do to get him to take it when he goes somewhere. “What if the car breaks down? Do you think phone booths still exist?”
My camera is also a phone. I bought it because it’s a good camera and I use it primarily to take photos to post on my blog and Facebook. At home, I shut it off. Unless it’s at breakfast and I’m reading the news headlines. When I’m out, like Phil, I try to remember to bring it. After that I try to remember to turn it on. You never know when you’ll need to take a photo of something.
For example, this one I took of a hidden bit of beauty while on a walk with Kitty.
An Englewood glimpse of the Denver Ditch
Sometimes someone texts me. I’ve learned to handle that intrusion fairly well if I do say so myself. “Christine wants us to come to tea at 15:30,” I announce, then do the conversion to 3:30 on my fingers. Between her military and medical background, she can’t help herself. It will always be 15:30 to her. I text to confirm. Christine makes the most wonderful goodies for tea. She’s buttering us up because she’s asking me to feed the cats while she’s out of town, but that’s fine with me. I like the cats. And I love her homemade pastries. And she lives next store. No brainer.
Texts I can handle, but usually only if you give me a heads up that you’ll be sending one. Otherwise my cell will be off. Actual calls are an invasion of another stripe. No one ever calls me on the cell and if they do, I usually can’t remember how to answer. Drag the little phone icon to the left? To the right? Into or out of the little circle? Oops, I just hung up. How do I find out who that was and call them back? Too much stress. I can’t deal with it. This is one social trend I’ve joined readily: I really don’t talk on the phone anymore. It’s so awkward. Don’t call me.
We aren’t completely hermetic, both check our email on a regular basis, if not obsessively. I’m told young people no longer use email, do Instagram, Twitter or whatever, but I can’t face another learning curve. Email is where I hear from writers, magazines, translators, friends and family who understand that outside of carrier pigeon, it’s the best way to reach me.
You can send me a Facebook message. I’ll get that too. My coffee group—currently not meeting due to the pandemic—has a Facebook messenger group, through which we used to say, “going to be late to coffee today” and through which we now say, “when are we ever going to meet again?” Some are ready to restart now. Phil and I are more in the “when there’s a vaccine” camp. Don’t hold your breath.
In sum: land line, if your phone displays your name. Forget the cell. Text, if the phone’s turned on, which it usually is not. Hey, how about a letter? Remember those? You write words on a piece of paper—by hand—fold it to fit in an envelope—if you have a number 10 envelope and write on a sheet you took from the printer, fold it in thirds. No, not in half. You don’t know what a number 10 envelope is? Address the envelope and add a sta—you don’t know how to address an envelope and don’t have stamps? Never mind. Just email me.
In a world of “instant” communication, it’s just gotten harder. Our solution is byzantine, I’ll grant you, however, it seems to work for us. By narrowing down the stream we make its reception much more exciting and meaningful. It’s simple psycho-spiritual-physics.
Ah, the landline. Yes to all the hassles, but out here where cell service is still sketchy, it actually serves a purpose, at times. Cellphone camera has been a game-changer in so many ways (service guy wants to know tire size? Rattlesnake next to the barn door? Horse did something stupid to a leg that’s going to be tricky to explain to a vet?). I have been shocked to discover how much I appreciate texting. My conversion to that Dark Side was completed during construction: not only do contractors often actually respond (and sometimes even in a timely fashion), I could convey necessary info (including pictures) without having to talk to them…bliss.
Nice photo, Pat. We still belong to the landline club, though it’s now fiber optic so it doesn’t work during a power outage like the old copper one did. When I’m out I still use my old flip phone, and on some days even that’s too complicated. Texting? Worse than trying to do a search on Netflix. Ah well, here we are. Hello out there.
Hola dear Pat, You’re on my wave-length!
We ignore the landline. If they leave a message, it goes to email. But it is a link to all those businesses that required one, so we leave it alone.
We have a Millennial child, so we leave the cell phones on. Facetime her tour through the new house she and her boyfriend bought in Omaha and have ruthlessly remodeled with their youthful energy! Hear her latest outraged texts concerning intersectional feminism! Transfer funds! It’s always a pleasure to have a lifeline (if not a landline) to our kid.
We’ve had the same phone number for 51 years and it is easy to remember and it’s the only thing our son has requested once we are dead. He’ll transfer the calls to his cell but anyone passing through town from long ago can remember it and get in touch. So we keep the land line!!
The part about adopting feeling awkward about talking on the phone made me laugh out loud. Great piece!
The “landline,” which used to be called “the phone,” is somehow comforting to have around. The one I grew up with in Baltimore began with the exchange “Tuxedo,” or “Tux”, as opposed to 303- or 720- Some Friends of Pat will also remember party lines (not the political rhetoric kind) and egg timers at the ready for costly long-distance calls.
Thaddeus, you gave me a flashback: my phone, which was on the kitchen wall when I was in high school, was Jordan 2, JO2. Wow.
We just got back from a week at our family cabin where there is no internet or cell service and it was bliss. I remember a time in the not so distant past when you didn’t get solicitation or political calls on your cell phone.
We got rid of our land line after endless hooha with Xfinity. (We use the phone shelf in our 1950’s house for small sculptures.) We converted the segment of our “package” to home security which we never use since the cats were setting it off constantly by jumping on the counters when we weren’t home. (Pretend you don’t know where I live.). I am constantly berated by friends and family for not carrying my cell phone with me at all times, but I don’t always want to be reached.
Deb R., love this and the fact that you read my blog soon after returning from the cabin! I remember those built-in shelves for the phone. My house (1897) is too old to have had any such thing.