Brother Can You Spare a Dime?

It’s humorous how members of the older generation are so preoccupied with events that have yet to happen, are highly improbable and completely out of one’s control. 

It’s a wonder I‘m able to exist at all and manage surrounded by so much danger!  Did I remember to wear a coat?  Do I ride public transportation by myself?  Do I walk on dark streets alone at night?  Do I look around and be sure no one is following me?  Do I travel in groups?  Do I carry mace, a whistle, a weapon to protect myself? Do I check my backseat and make sure no one is lurking there?  Do I talk to strangers?  Do I open my door after 8pm? Did I remember to breathe?  Did I remember to change my underwear (because you never know when you may end up in the emergency room!)?   

These questions were cause for great concern and many hours of lost sleep.  

I was and continue to be surrounded by perpetual worriers.  And it got worse when I transplanted across the country.

During the 70’s, while on a trip to Florida during a standard, New England winter, my grandfather returned home to find the pipes had frozen and the house flooded.   Taking this as some kind of sign (or a perpetual excuse that suited him just fine), my grandfather could never be convinced to leave the house again over the remaining thirty years of his life.  If my grandmother was able to drag him out, the furthest he agreed to go was within an hour’s distance and no more than a few hours at a time. 

My paternal grandparents were extremely money-conscious.  Having lived frugally during the Depression era, they learned to use everything they had without ever wasting.  Money was hard to come by during that time.  The entire animal would be used when cooking, no part wasted or spared.  Every piece of scrap paper was written on and reused, unnecessary electricity shut off.  Certain rooms in the house were actually closed off during the winter to save on the heating bill. 

After visiting them each week, we were subjected to an unusual ritual.  Upon arriving back at our house after each visit, it was my job to dial their phone, allow it to ring once, then hang up.  This signaled we arrived home safely.  At the same time, we also had the upper hand on the phone company and wouldn’t owe the dime a long distance call cost at that time.  What a scheme to cheat the phone company!  Since the call was not actually received on the other end, it theoretically didn’t exist, no bill would be generated, and no money owed to the phone company for the call.  At least that was my grandmother’s theory. 

However there was a grand flaw in her scheme.  The number of rings the caller heard on their end of the phone wasn’t the same number of rings the receiver heard on their end.   We would hear one ring on our end and my grandmother would hear two.   This would result in an immediate call back to our phone with a desperate inquiry why we rang the phone twice.  What did two rings mean?  Had something terrible happened?  Had we been in an accident?  Had the pipes frozen at the house?  Had the house burned down while we were gone for two hours? 

Now owing the phone company ten cents for the call, the entire ritual became counter-productive, took more time, caused more worry, and the dime saved resulted in a dime spent.  But you could never argue with the elders of that generation.  Back then it was considered a sign of disrespect.   

The baton of worry was passed on from my grandparents to my parents, and now to me.  It is a perpetual balancing act to keep in touch and provide informational updates, while keeping certain levels of detail unknown. 

 

It's the only way to protect them.   They can’t handle the truth.