I recently entered the 21st Century, more than 14 years after everyone else.

I didn’t want to. I didn’t enter quietly, peacefully, or willingly. I was forced.

I received a vile, written communication from AT&T, stating that something old and decrepit was lurking under my roof, and so is his cell phone. It would appear that my “personal communication device” was so antiquated that my telephone service provider (that would be AT &T) would no longer be providing service for my telephone.

This was a sad day. My cell phone had served me well for hundreds of years — keeping in mind, at the current rate of communication device development, one week for a cell phone is equal to a year in human time. By the end of a two-year “service” contract, a cell phone has reached the equivalent age of 104 years.

AT&T was no longer willing to care for the Greatest Generation of cell phones — the tiny flip-phone that resembles a river rock (I know this because mine fell out of my pocket, into some river rock xeriscaping, and was lost for three days).

This was the generation of phones, demanded by the buying public to become smaller and smaller, with unreadable tiny screens, and texting capabilities that required hitting the “A” key three times in order to display a “C.” This was the generation of cell phones that fought for our right to be in constant communication by texting, thus eliminating the need to actually endure the human aspect of having to hear someone’s voice.

My phone had a feature that doesn’t come with the newest “generation” of cell phones: It didn’t work very well. I loved this feature.

It was always out of cell range, it had an inaudible ring tone, and voicemail messages would often be displayed four or five days after they were received. It was perfect!

If someone called, and I exercised my right to not want to be bothered, I could just blame it on my phone. Cultural norms have de-evolved to the point where someone (anyone) can call me and expect (make that demand) that I answer the call or respond to the text, and do it immediately. Sometimes I just don’t want to be bothered.

OK. Make that pretty much all the time.

Why is it that the American Telephone and Telegraph Company can tell me that my chosen means of communication is outdated? How can a telegraph company, partially founded on dots and dashes in 1885, come barging into the new millennium and tell me I will “no longer be supported?”

I miss the glory days of party-line eaves dropping, four-digit phone numbers, and named exchanges (ours was MUtual-5555).

Most people think an “exchange” is what people do on the day after Christmas, and think a “party-line” has something to do with politics.

My new smart phone (I’m reserving judgment on the “smart” part) has one feature that I really do like. When I receive a call or text, the caller’s picture pops up on the nice big screen. Now, I don’t have to put on my glasses in order to read the caller I.D. on the old, tiny screen.

It is much easier to know who I am ignoring.

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.