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Fossilizing my Way Through Life

The Source

There’s a short YouTube clip making its way around the Internet and I think it may be genuine since the lighting is poor, the camera is shaky and the actors don’t seem to be actors. A family has checked into a hotel room and the daughter, perhaps age ten, picks up a corded phone between the two beds and asks her father what it is. He’s taking the film and you can hear him laughing off-camera. The mother enters the area, sees that her daughter’s confused by a phone with a cord and laughingly put the receiver back into its cradle. A simple 30-second video but it spoke volumes to me. I continue to be amazed at what kids don’t know and in many cases they don’t really need the information. I was standing outside the Soap Company Coffee House last week talking to one of my Lincoln Land students. She said, “I wonder what the square looked like in the old days.” I told here that there were hitching rails for the horses and streetcar wires stretching across the square. “No,” she said. “I mean before they let you drive around the square.” Good grief! That was only a few years ago, wasn’t it? My recent memory was obviously her ancient history. The only thing more painful than feeling your knees and hips fossilize is seeing the same thing happen to your lifestyle and your memory. Nothing causes more laughter than when I receive a call and I pull out my flip phone in the presence of anyone under 21. They think it’s like watching an old movie of grandpa using the outdoor toilet. When I try to explain what was once the joy of owning a bag phone they stare at me in disbelief. My brother tells me that whenever his wife runs around the house trying to find her IPhone he tells her, “You know, we should get one of those things that hook to the wall and you always know where it is.” I’ve so far relented from purchasing a fancy cell phone for three reasons: 1) I live in Arenzville with pitiful phone reception, 2) I keep thinking what else I could be doing with that money, and 3) If I ever need a cell phone there’s usually one within spitting distance of where I’m standing. This sounds like freeloading, but so be it. My neighbor’s dogs pee in my yard so I don’t hesitate to reciprocate by asking them to check the weather for me. And oh yeah . . . one more reason for not purchasing an uber-phone and perhaps the best one: I don’t want to be bothered. I’ve seen the way the things have sucked the minutes and hours away from the lives of my friends. Last week I played a concert in a church. The minister introduced me then spent the rest of the service sitting in the back row texting. Okay, there’s an outside chance that she was sending text messages to God and that He was returning holy words of prophesy and salvation bringing peace on Earth and good will to men . . . but I doubt it. I think I’m getting a reputation. Last semester a new student joined my class and I overheard a friend of hers tell the new student, “Don’t even look at your phone in Bradbury’s class. He’ll kill you.” Frankly, I’d never thought about going that far but it might set a good example and a more interesting way to start each year than asking them what they did on their summer vacation. Of course once class is over and they head to their cars they can do as they wish . . . and they do. I remember attending a teachers’ workshop several years ago to learn how to spot students in class who might be suffering from drug addiction. I kid you not. . . the symptoms are the same as I see on the faces of my kids as they dash for their phones at the end of class. If Lincoln Land provided blood pressure monitors I’m sure that I could detect an actual change in their physiological state. I would defy you to look up any definition of drug withdrawal and compare it to look on the faces of teenagers or many adults when deprived of their phones. And of course my students and adult friends accuse me of suffering an acute case of fuddy-duddy-ism. They think that I’m the type who would have once objected to the invention of the automobile and indoor plumbing. Sorry, but I disagree. Neither the Model T Ford nor the flush toilet caused me to sit at a restaurant table or committee meeting and completely waste my time with people who find their cell phones more interesting than their present company. As I sit to write this column two people have texted me via my email account and it’s driving them crazy that I’ve gone thirty minutes without answering. Gotta love it.