Memo to the kids: Call home

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

It was magical, the old telephone. It rang and you raced to it and picked it up and said ``hello?'' and someone - a friend, a neighbor, sometimes someone far away in another state - said ``hello'' back. And you got excited, hearing a certain voice, thrilled and surprised when it was your best friend calling, or a boy you just met, because the phone ringing was like a knock on a door or a gift-wrapped present. Always a mystery.

It was practical, too. ``I lost my homework page. Can you read me the questions?'' ``Want to go to the movies on Saturday?'' ``My mother said she'd pick us up after play practice tomorrow.'' And bingo, just like that, schedules were confirmed and problems solved.

Adults used the phone sporadically, to call their mothers, to make appointments, to check their work schedules. Teens used the phone incessantly, to gab to friends. They'd come home from school, shut themselves in their rooms, and talk and talk about music and books and school and kids they liked and kids they didn't like, to one friend right after another. Until a parent would knock on their door and say ``Who are you talking to now?'' and ``Didn't you just see her?'' and ``It's time to hang up.'' And a teen would just roll her eyes and sigh.

The phone rings now and no one moves. ``Let the machine get it.'' ``I don't feel like talking.'' ``Who the !@#$% is calling?'' The phone rings and there's a collective groan.

When did this magnificent invention that can carry a human voice all over the world fall so completely out of grace?

When my son texted me last year to announce the birth of his son, I thought this was a singular aberration.

``I didn't want to wake you,'' is what he said, when I phoned him in the morning.

``You texted me this wonderful news?'' I said. ``Next time, please call.''

``There will be no next time,'' my daughter-in-law said, which put an end to that conversation.

This week my daughter, who lives down the street, texted and e-mailed from 6 until 7:45 a.m. that she had thrown out her back, was stuck in bed, and couldn't move.

``Does anyone have any drugs?'' she wrote, not wailed.

Finally, at 7:50 she picked up the phone and dialed.

``Why haven't you answered me?'' she kind of yelled.

And I said, ``Huh? Did you call?''

``No. I texted and e-mailed,'' she groaned.

And I said, ``Would you text 911 if your house were on fire? Would you text and e-mail if someone were breaking into the house?''

``I didn't want to wake you, Mom.''

The truth is, if I slept with my cellphone next to the bed, texts and e-mails would wake me. They ping. They buzz. They annoy. Plus they have to be downloaded. And a person needs to find her glasses to read them.

A regular old telephone is far more efficient.

``Hello?''

``Hi, Mom. I hurt my back and I can't move and I'm stuck in bed. Do you have any muscle relaxers and can you come over?''

``I'll be right there.''

Problem dealt with in less than a minute.

Texts get lost. E-mails get blocked. You can talk faster than you can type. And you don't have to smiley face your emotions. You can hear fear and joy and laughter and pain and doubt and excitement and worry and sarcasm and tears.

You'd think we'd be talking to each other all day. But instead we're texting, which is fine for things like ``Game over'' and ``Almost home.''

But when we really have something to say, like ``You have a new grandson, Mom!'' or ``Can you come over right now!'' the old-fashioned phone is the only way to go.