And the beep goes on
Only please … could this not wait until I’ve at least had a cup of coffee?
“Beep. Beep. Beep,” it replies. Gently. Quite quietly and, annoyingly, only about once every five minutes which makes locating the source a real puzzle.
Breakfast first though my quandary makes it hard to concentrate on the papers. Where is it? What is it? And, of course, why?
That the alarms (one or all) are telling me they need batteries replaced would seem sensible. Only mine are wired to the house so no batteries required.
A fancy new weather station brightens the den at all hours. (I wish I understood half of what it wants to tell me. Then again, how long would I have to remain seated and at attention to read all its messages?) It plugs into the house but the part outdoors does require batteries. Are they low? Beep. Beep. Beep. The sound is behind me, not in this room.
There is nothing in the music room. The recorder is turned off and I know my bass will not retort on its own (though its complaints would be plenty, if given the chance).
The dining room is a shambles. Correspondence is spread at one end of the table, papers to eventually be scrapbooked at the other, a box of needlework and more I’d rather not see just now. But nothing that should make noise.
I shuffle back to breakfast.
Dang! Beep. Beep. Beep. And it is coming from the dining room!
My defunct cellphone has come alive to tell me I have two waiting calls. Though it’s not Nigeria or the Bahamas as before (the call is a 716 number), I doubt if it’s anyone I know. I have never used the phone and don’t even know its number.
And I can’t turn it off.
The last time it began this annoying message (all those far away calls), I finally had to let it ping until the battery died. It’s the only way.
Let me explain: I have two cellphones. One stays in the kitchen but does get used on occasion. I have three names and numbers programmed into it (and don’t think that didn’t require effort!) but it’s all I need. I bought the second for “emergencies” — specifically to be kept in a zipped pocket in my parka for the wintry morning treks down to get the papers. It could, I suppose, be kept in my purse during the other seasons — or, when I get somewhat older, kept in a fanny pack as I make my way through my day. Both are as basic as a telephone can be — OK too since, while I’d love to jump into the 21st century with a phone like everyone else, I lack the time to each myself how to maneuver though all the available features. So far I’ve found no one patient enough to teach me. My two cost a pittance annually. I see no reason to shell out what seems like a fortune monthly for something I wouldn’t know what to do with.
But I do think it’s time to check in with my cellphone company (I’ve found them pleasant to work with) to try to get this abomination to work correctly or get one that can. (This was a factory-ordered replacement that has never worked right. My other is a SpongeBob Squarepants model — don’t ask; the price was right. It does work just fine.)
And the beeps go on. I really do know how to turn these gizmos off. I do it every day. Press PWR/END. Yup. I can hold it for a minute — even longer would my patience last. It does no good — beyond telling me — hallelujah! The battery is low. Well, one can hope.
Mondays always seem more open days than Fridays. Perhaps I can chisel enough time then to call the company. In the meanwhile, Tinkerbell needs a rest . . . far, far way. But will I remember where?
I don’t really need that Beep. Beep. Beep.
Susan Crossett has lived outside Cassadaga for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. “Her Reason for Being” was published in 2008 with “Love in Three Acts” following in 2014. Information on all the Musings, her books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com.