Letter From America: Who Calls?
...It was at that point that I decided I was either in the grip of intelligent visiting aliens, or else one of my dental fillings was enigmatically connected to the Cox telephone system through chemico-salivary action converting the amalgam into a passable analogue of crystal quartz... While working at his computer Ronnie Bray becomes convinced that his printer is "talking'' to him.
To sample more of Ronnie's good humoured words click on Letter From America in the menu on this page. Read also chapters of his life story A Shout From The Attic.
The thing about getting older is that surprises multiply. This is not a trick of fate, but a result of an expanding gullibility that accompanies our response to unexpected events for which no simple solution can be readily found. The human mind needs answers to all its questions, and if none can be found via the usual channels, then imagination supplies what is lacking, frequently adorned with baroque embroidery that takes it out of the everyday and projects it into dimension of which we have not dreamed.
This is how I came to believe that my printer was speaking to me, telling me that I should either "dial a number or hang up!" It came on suddenly, and as it had not happened before I was flummoxed to the extent of complete bewilderment and oxymoronic half-witted discommodation at the same time. Although it sounded to be coming from my printer, I am not simple-minded, so I checked the telephone on the wall. There was no dial tone. Replacing it in its cradle the mysterious voice again announced "dial or quit" and produced a dial tone. I brought the ‘phone to my ear a second time just in case, but the thing was as silent as the tomb. Whatever was the source of the announcement, it was not that.
I picked up a miniature stereo radio that I keep on the desk to get the news. It was switched off, and turning it on and off several times did not quell the invasory proclamations. Next, after holding the computer speakers to my ear but hearing nothing through them, although the announcement was repeating yet again, I turned them off.
I leaned across the desk towards the printer several times, then leaned back to see if I could identify the direction from which the instruction and continuous buzzing tone were coming. It seemed to be from the printer, but lifting its lid did not help, so I decided to shut it down. I hit a button. Nothing happened. Five buttons later I hit the proper one and the printer shut itself down. Nevertheless, the message and the voice were not silenced. Had the thing gone mad? Was it a freak electronic mutation that had spontaneously caused it to convert itself into a telephonic receiver? Was I hearing things? Of course, not. I am old, but I am not daft!
It was at that point that I decided I was either in the grip of intelligent visiting aliens, or else one of my dental fillings was enigmatically connected to the Cox telephone system through chemico-salivary action converting the amalgam into a passable analogue of crystal quartz, and since I was unable to switch it off no matter what I did, I became preoccupied at the potential size of the bill! Nothing I did could quiet the buzz or the interminable announcer. Yet, if it wasn’t the telephone, the stereo, my computer, or printer, then what the blue blazes was it?
Imagine how foolish I felt when I finally comprehended that it was coming from the cordless telephone parked in the breast pocket of my shirt. When I had leaned across the desk to reach for something, the ‘talk’ button had been pressed "on," and after I had not taken further action, it spoke up, as they do, suggesting that I should either ring up, or hang up.
One of the blessings and surprises of growing old in this fast moving technological epoch is that there is still plenty to engage our sense of wonder and faculty of ‘whatever-nextness,’ and provided that we do not lose the good sense to keep wondering about things, we are still alive and well, and that’s what makes old age the exciting adventure that it is from the inside.
You youngsters who see our grey hair, our dimming eyes, our stoops, our faltering steps, who have to speak a little louder, allot us a little more time to complete familiar tasks, and who smile knowingly when we forget to put the sugar in the cookies, don’t write us off because we have slowed down a bit, can’t catch a ball every time, wobble critically on a two-step ladder, or get a backache lifting the newspaper from the driveway.
Sure, we will forget your birthdays, heck, we forget our own birthdays, but we won’t forget that we love you, and we will never be too tired to listen to your stories, or praise your accomplishments, even if we can’t get your name right the first few tries. We are not dead or dying – we are just getting older and things don’t work as well as they did when we were a wee bit younger.
Remember that these things happen to us minute-by-minute and every minute, not just when you are observing us. We don’t enjoy the ebbing of our endowments even though we smile about them. We have accepted that that’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to be from now on until the resurrection – and then we’ll chase you round the park again!
Do not write us off or dismiss us ancient yonderlies until you see indisputable and persistent signs that we have ceased to wonder, ceased to tap to music, and ceased to smile at babies, for then, and only then, will we be de–ceased!
Copyright (C) 2006 - Ronnie Bray
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Other stories at:
http://www.2theheart.com/author_ronnie_bray
http://www.meridianmagazine.com/voices/011024summer.html
