I lost my best pal recently. Of all my pals
– and there are a few that are always close by – this pal was my
favorite.
I lost my best pal recently. Of all my pals – and there are a few that are always close by – this pal was my favorite. When I needed to talk, my pal was there. When I needed to know the time or the temperature, my pal was able to help. And when I needed to get information or schedule a doctor’s appointment, pal was with me all the way.
But now my pal is lost. That’s right. I can’t find my phone.
Oh, sure, it sounds trite. I mean, phones are everywhere. In my house there are at least five or six. But this is handset No. 1 we’re talking about – my very favorite phone ever. It was the Queen of All Phones.
It sat in the kitchen, on the big charger with the answering machine attached. Frankly, compared to handset No. 1, the other phones were just extensions. The other phones don’t have answering machines. They don’t have the main phone list with auto dial programmed in. They’re just phones. They can’t replace handset No. 1.
But handset No. 1 disappeared a few weeks ago. At first I was confident. After all, it’s a cordless phone,. so it’s prone to disappearing from time to time. Usually, I just page it and it beeps until I locate it in the laundry hamper, under the couch or even once in the swimming pool under the solar cover.
But I’ve paged it many times, and my little phone is silent. Beepless. And I don’t know where it is. I’ve looked in all the usual places – under sofa cushions, under beds, in closets. And yes, I’ve even checked the pool. But that darned phone has run away.
And now I want it back. I don’t think that’s asking for too much. As long as it returns safely to me, I won’t ask any questions. I won’t ask it where it’s been, if it’s seeing another family or carrying on with another answering machine. I don’t even care if it’s been charging itself somewhere else. I just hope it’s safe.
Sometimes, when the extensions ring, I think I can hear the handset No. 1. And I rush through the house, only to come up empty-handed. It’s sad, really. That handset was my friend. We went everywhere together, my phone and I. I love to talk, and the phone was my lifeline to the outside world. I could talk to anyone, anywhere on my phone. I could say anything to the phone and trust that it would not run around blabbing my deepest secrets to the entire neighborhood.
When I worked in the garden, handset No. 1 was there. When I sat outside, watching Junior play, it was at my ear. When I took a shower – well, my phone was charging then. But other than that, handset No. 1 and I were very close.
Sure, I have other phones. They’re waiting in the wings, ready to step up to the big charger. But this was handset No. 1, darn it. It sat in the kitchen on its charger, ready and waiting for me to talk my brains out. It even had a special ring tone that none of the other phones had. All the other phones in the house would ring, but handset No. 1 played “Greensleeves.” And now it’s playing that song for someone else. Or it’s lost someplace, alone and with an uncharged battery.
And I’m lost too. Every time someone calls, I run to the charger where handset No. 1 was, and I’m surprised to see it empty. I listen for the familiar sound of “Greensleeves” and I remember all the happy times we had together, handset No. 1 and I. Times when I would rush all over the house just to talk using it – ignoring all the other phones around.
I miss handset No. 1. But I think the time has come to move on. So I’ll take handset No. 2 out of the playroom and program it to play “Greensleeves.” I’ll give it a new home in the kitchen, on the big charger with the answering machine.
But I’ll still miss my pal, handset No. 1. I hope that wherever it is, it’s in a good place with people who don’t mind the tinny sounds of “Greensleeves” or the way the volume was always too loud or too soft, but never just right.
On the other hand, handset No. 2 is always the perfect volume. Maybe I have a new best pal. I just hope I can keep track of this one.
Laurie Sontag is a Gilroy writer and mom who wishes parenthood had come with instructions. Her column is syndicated. She can be reached at la****@la**********.com.
