Are We Having Phone Yet?

Ladies and gents, my nemesis:

For those too young to recognize what you're looking at, may I present the great-grandma of that vibrating cell you carry in your back pocket—otherwise known as the telephone. Voilà!

This one bears a resemblance to the last phone I had a good relationship with, many years ago. Notice the rotary dial? It's not as speedy to use as buttons, but makes for a more interactive calling experience, and requires extra seconds of patience. Slow Phone. It's organic. It also used to make for interesting dream symbolism; my mom used to have visions in the night about rotary phones—always they were out of order. A dial that wouldn't stop spinning was a problem that frequently vexed her in Slumberland. I used to interpret those dreams for her when I was little. She asked me.

I actually have many good phone stories—look, here's one now!—however, it's been 23 years since the telephone and I had a serious falling out, dating from a deep provocation which inspired me to despise the ol' horn—but that's not the story I want to tell today.

Generally, I don't hold grudges, but somehow this aversion of mine to all things telephone never passed, but instead grew, slowly, steadily (admittedly, with much care and feeding), till here I am, two decades and some change later, so practiced in my disdain that I can go for days and often weeks without picking up the receiver and saying so much as, "Hullo?" Some of you already know this.

It's not productive behavior, I agree. It's anti-social. I know, I know. You nut, are you phobic? you might ask. And I'd answer, Well... maybe. Okay, yes. Moderately. I have been known to run from ringing phones. But only on occasion.

So it was brought to my attention early in December (and several times since, oof) that our home message machine was full and rudely turning callers away. I yam ashamed to consider how long it's been since I last listened to voice mail.

Today I finally did something that probably none of you will think is brave, because it isn't, really. In fact, I guess it's even a smidge chicken-hearted. I emptied our machine, without listening to the old messages... messages numbering in the triple digits, I might add, completely neglected, collected for months. I did not attempt to muster the courage to play them and take notes and vow to respond. I knew it was a do or die project—erase the lot, crash and burn, declare bankruptcy—but also in the process reboot, forgive and forget, wipe the slate clean.

That's right. I lobotomized my phone.

Here's the one redeeming part: I didn't do it to ignore anyone. I did it to make room for change. I'm ready to bury the hatchet with... what? It's more than just the telephone. I'm not sure I want to delve too deeply into the psychology at present; I'd much prefer to post some YouTube vids and scatter some photos around, thus:

I love people! I mean, honestly love them! See why? That's why it's time to quit singing this (admittedly very catchy) reclusive tune.

Yeah, this is more like it. See the friendly pink Hungarian lady? This is exactly what I should be doing. It's what I vow to do! Ring-a-ding-ding, world! And another vow: I will answer the dang-blamed phone. I will. I haven't missed a call yet since the message blitz. (Okay, there's only been one, but my intention is fixed.)

Here's the plan: my rehabilitation starts immediately—I'm not waiting for the new year to roll around. I'm inviting you to be part of my reformation effort, and it'll be a comfortable rather than a hair-shirtless repentance, if you don't mind. A daily call. Like this:

Looks simple enough, doesn't it? I call, you answer. I mean, if you'd like to. If you're not singing the Cake song and screening your calls. I guess you're still helping if you don't answer your phone, aren't you? You're still my intended destination, and dialing your number is still a journey for me.

You do realize this is a Sign of the Times.

So, dear ones, if you want to help me get this leaf turned over, email me your phone number. Yes, even if you believe I have it. Chances are I can't find it, because hey, I've almost never used it. (Ouch. This hurts.) I'll start filling up my calendar with one call a day (gotta start at a moderate pace). If you want a specific day, say the word. If you want repeat days, say those words too. Ha. I will beat this confounded bugaboo. Oh, and if you are Rob and want me to call you, go ahead and sign up, because I can always go next door and borrow the neighbors' phone. Contact me at:

pogofig at gmail dot com

That'll do.

Doesn't this look fun?—

Bring Me the Head of Frosty!

On my way back to bed just now I looked out the kitchen window and realized that the freshly-made snowcouple in my next-door neighbors' front yard are now missing their heads as of sundown. Is this some kind of Solstice prank? Is it a mischief to satisfy the twisted cravings of some resentful Utahn who missed the full moon/lunar eclipse last night, thanks to cloud cover? When I get up in the morning and look at the rest of the snowfolk on my block, will they have also lost their noggins? What gives, thieves?

These aren't the first heads to disappear from our 'hood this week. Two Sundays ago, I was leaving the house very late for church, and happened to witness the surprise delivery of a beast of a Christmas ornament to my other next-door neighbors (also my friends). Picture a delivery truck and a scramble of everyday-looking people, mostly grumping at each other (a couple of them shirking their duty and singing silly carols at the others from across the street) while they unloaded something large which at first resembled a blowup lawn decoration in the shape of a snowman. As the layers of plastic wrap(!) began to be peeled away, I saw that it was a giant tree with a stupidly happy and top-hatted Frosty head in place of a star, and long arms sleeved in festive Christmas plaid with which to hug itself and possibly grab children. Tell you what, it was really hard to tear myself away and drive to church with that kind of show going on.

Later that evening, I knocked on my neighbors' door, eager to inspect the holiday damage. Mom, Dad, and kids were all sitting in their now-crowded living room in chairs lined up in a row, staring slack-jawed at the Frosty tree (whose neck looked a little uncomfortable, what with his being so tall and trying not to scrape his top hat on the not-quite-high-enough ceiling) and the landslide of other large and unexpected gifts that had also been grumpily delivered: entertainment center, enormous flatscreen TV, blue-ray, and a giant inflatable for the front yard—three snowmen in a snow globe.

Frosty struck me as full of silly goodwill and Christmas cheer, a soul whose spirit could never be dampened nor defeated. He seemed not to care (or even notice) that he was out of place in their quiet, understated home. "OH, BY GOSH, BY GOLLY, FOLKS, HOPE YA HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS!" What made the situation even more comical was Frosty's improbable mass, which seemed all the more exaggerated by the diminutive size of his new housemates; we're talking about tiny people who live next to me. People frighteningly dwarfed by an enthusiastic tree-man.

When I visited a couple days later, there was something distressing happening to Frosty. The young daughter of the family was up on a chair, and appeared to be giving Frosty some kind of chiropractic adjustment. I heard a clear Crack! as she grabbed his (fake) carrot nose for better leverage. Crack! again, and Frosty got a hitch in his sniffy-up.

Next time I stopped in, Frosty was gone. Oh, the glittering tree that once was his body was still there, and its silvery ornaments gleamed with pride, having been stripped of goofiness, as Frosty's keepers had wrenched the head free, and removed the appendages, which once had been so eager to embrace the season. I was told: "J. came by today and wanted the head for a costume. But she wouldn't take the arms." The tree did look pretty after having received such intimate alterations—who would have ever noticed those fancy baubles with such a friendly bumpkin forever introducing himself and stealing the show? I never did. I can't exactly  say I blame my friends for deconstructing Frosty's personality, but oh, by gosh, by golly, I do kinda miss him. I cannot see a tree when I look at their renovated (fake) tannenbaum; for me, it will remain a headless snowman.

And now this, this rash of lost heads. I don't suspect J. Nope, somebody must have watched Frosty's beheading through my neighbors' front window; this is a copycat crime. Or maybe this is someone's idea of a protest against the mistreatment of snowmen in captivity. I guess it could be the local snowpeople's own demonstration of solidarity: We will all lay down our heads until Frosty again wears his own (fake) smile. 

Bundesarchiv, Bild 102-12806 / CC-BY-SA [CC-BY-SA-3.0-de 

(www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/de/deed.en)], via Wikimedia Commons

Hi, Neighbors

Long-time beloveds and more recent inductees into adoration who crossed our threshold today:

• brother Brian (who likes toast with oomph)
• Annie Lennox (via CD—thanks, Brian)
• all three Homo sapiens inhabitants of Tribal Headquarters (Dad in a cloud of sick-day vision, the women fluttering anxiously behind)
• skinny Dave (whom I intend to feed)
• Melody's offspring, Luke (who seems like a lovable guy in his own right, but automatically warrants a place on this list because he's got his mama's blood and steadily merits her approval)
• President Amanda (with her megawatt smile)
• Leland and Charla (even though they came while we were having dinner at Mama Pupusas'—phoo)
• Santa, née Bruce (out of uniform and wearing a safari hat and no whiskers, but ho-ho-ho-ing merrily as ever)
• the shake rattle and roll Tanner boys (come a-bearing season's drum beatings)

A great day for visitors!

Flower shower

Today is June Roses Day. My third. Your third too, though you might only be learning about it now. Don't despair if you didn't celebrate it today; as creator of the holiday I give you leave to make up for lost time in the coming days. Extend it, if you like. June Roses Day, like Christmas, really could be kept all year long to great advantage. Do your homework; click the link above and begin to explore your options. Then plant, tend, pick, or press your beautiful roses. Remember, remember them.

I had intended to spend some time today reminiscing about the Provo Tabernacle, which was completely gutted this week by a terrible fire, a whirlwind of a fire. That's still on this week's schedule, but my day was taken up entirely by meetings and appointments, and by time spent with one very sick husband (mine, in case you're wondering). That's alright. I had some good moments today—most importantly, I had a deeply and sweetly surreal experience which let me know that I am lovingly remembered by someone who means the world and more to me. This isn't the time to elaborate on the particulars of that, but I know I will share here some of my processing about it when the hour's not so late and the talking feels right. I just wanted to send out a quiet thank you to the powers that be for showering me with some beautiful roses which I will remember and cherish all my life.

Here's an abbreviated grateful list for the day:

• a snooze button
• oatmeal
• a clean house (or part of one)
• being okay with slept-on hair
• epiphany: music works like water
• our ward choir's beautiful rendition of "O, Holy Night"
• watching a family begin a tradition of worshipping together
• knowing when to miss class to listen to a friend
• the sweetness of this
• a stranger's warm smile
• being busy all day with people busy caring for people
• high-grading the bishop's candy stash
• being thanked
• being trusted
• Gingerbread Moose Munch
• other people's barbecue
• the fun of being pestered by an impish long-time friend (I'm talking to you, Ray.)
• sharing faith
• sharing Christmas
• sacred songs of the season
• talk time
• fresh carrot-orange juice
• Henry Van Dyke
• Rob's Christmas song (so so very)