Growing up, one of the things that stuck with me was the later in the day a phone call came, the less likely it was to be good news. In my family growing up, we knew better than to phone home after 8 PM, no matter what, and no matter where we were.
At nearly sixty-eight, I am, I suppose, all the adult I am ever going to be. The growing old part worked far too well and the growing up part didn't seem to work at all. I still get nervous going into a darkened room and will search out the light switch even if I'm only passing through. And phone calls now? Even with, or perhaps especially because of, caller ID, when the phone rings in the evening, I am always startled (maybe wary is a better word).
The house telephones we have now require two rings to show me the number and name of the caller, and I stand, transfixed, watching that little display.
Despite 'do not call' registrations, I get a lot of callers from folks who technically don't want to sell me anything, which is prohibited by the registry, but rather only want to take a few minutes of my time for a survey on a multitude of issues, services, and products which, many times, always seem to end in what sounds suspiciously like a sales pitch. All of these morons I can handle and do, with a tad more relish and enjoyment than I really should, truth be told.
When I see the name and number of my son or daughter in the display, however, my bravado evaporates and I start making horror movies in my head. I mutter 'please don't be anything bad' at least three hundred kajillion times between the second ring, which displays their name, and the third ring that never comes because I answer the phone.
Both of them would think it cute their old man breaks out in cold sweats when they call him after dark--if my wife answers the phone, I pace and fret within eyesight and earshot, lest she forgets to tell me of a cataclysmic catastrophe that has befallen one of them.
When we brought them home from the hospital, and they still had that 'new baby smell', I used to sit in a corner of their room and watch them sleep. I was fascinated by their breathing and with any and every movement they made while in their crib. I had no need for television; I had my must-see and did so many times, for many years, as they grew up.
As an adult, I can understand and internalize the realization I cannot protect my children, who are in fact, adults, themselves now, from every evil and misfortune in the world, but when the day gets dark and the phone rings at night, my inner grown-up is nowhere to be found. And the me who remains can do nothing more than stare at the ringing phone and hope the monster under the bed has gone away by the time I answer it.
-bill kenny
Ramblings of a badly aged Baby Boomer who went from Rebel Without a Cause to Bozo Without a Clue in, seemingly, the same afternoon.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Re-Roasting a Christmas Chestnut
I tell this tale every year and will continue to do so even as they lock me away in the home. I've taken to calling it: Bill's Chri...
-
My memories aren't always what they once were and I'm sad that they are starting to fade or to get misplaced because I've loved ...
-
Without boring you with the details, because it's embarrassing actually, I am nearing the moment when I will get punched out in public, ...
-
Labor Day 2024. Robber Barons, Mega Banks and Wall Street: too much. Working Poor, Middle Class and Main Street: never enough. There once ...
No comments:
Post a Comment