Friday, April 22, 2011

You Can't Phone Home Again ...

I don't own a smart phone. It took me years to join the legions who use their phones not to talk but text. I joke with friends that I like to stay at least three years behind the technology curve. But I'm falling further behind.

I've always loved old phones, their utilitarian quality, their heft. No fashion colors, no lighted displays, no curly cords. Just a phone. A connection.

Some years ago, my folks gave me an old phone for my birthday. They retained custody of it with the promise to get it to someone who could get it working again. And then it was put in a box and the box was put in their basement and there the phone sat, until mom discovered it again recently. And she asked a friend to fix it, which he nearly did. Turns out, you can't really get parts for phone this old, and without the repair, he warned my mother, the phone could short out and spark a fire. In other words, my phone is fine for its form, but forget about its function.

I jokingly suggested that I could keep it in a lead box, so that if a fire did start, it would be contained. But instead, my phone, delivered into my hands at last, shall be an objet d'art. Kids who may toddle around here can use it for pretend conversations.

For that matter, I can use it for pretend conversations, too.

But I'm happy to have it at last. Old things, they suit me.


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