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For me, communications in 2026 boil down to telephone, texting, or email. I don't do smoke signals anymore.
Alas, my arthritic hands have consigned hand-written notes to the back burner. When I hand write, maybe the first line or two have some resemblance to my once clear penmanship. Then the fingers cramp, the wrist stops pushing, and the script becomes a scrawl rapidly descending towards chicken scratch. Sort of like a doctor's prescription.
So, with my handwriting on the fritz, the computer has become my favorite. I still like to send a handwritten personal greeting. But if it extends past two handwritten lines, the remainder is a printout, folded and inserted with the card or note. I write the envelope at a different time so it's legible enough for the post office's machine readers.
My computer is my lifeline. Because of this column and a bunch of other writerly commitments, I'm on my laptop first thing in the morning and last thing at night. My knotty, knobby fingers much prefer the keyboard to texting. The text letters and numbers on my phone are too tiny for my stiff joints - I only text as a last resort. Then just last week, I learned to hate my phones. Plural.
Yes, we still have a land line. We are probably one of the three or four families left in Warren who are still paying two phone bills. No, it's not because we have money to burn. It's because without the land line, we wouldn't have a way to find our cell phones!
The insurance people who sell Medicare programs have been constantly calling since the middle of October. They have until the first week in December to convince me - and oodles of other seniors – that we should change our insurance to their plan. I don't know how many insurers are out there trying to change my mind, but if I judge it by the telephone traffic, it's hundreds. They start promptly at 9:00 a.m. every weekday. At first, I was simply frustrated by the frequency. I listened to a few to get the gist of things. When I say "Hello," there is the telltale pause. Then a voice says hello... with an uplifted question mark at the end of the word. So of course, that's when I repeat our hello, which kicks on the recorded sales statement.
"Hello, this is Naomi. We have been trying to reach you for a week ...." Or, "This is Jennifer responding to your call for more insurance information...." No, I did not inquire about your insurance. And yes, if you've been trying for a week, it's because I don't want to talk to you. Leave me alone. PU-LEEZ. The number of these calls is ridiculously out of hand. It took me until this week to find the BLOCK button on the bottom of my landline receiver.
Last week, on my birthday, I received four calls from faraway dear friends. I love getting their catch-up calls and email greetings. But my big day began with four insurance phone calls before 10:00 a.m. from the Maddening Medicare Miserables. In between my desirable personal calls, the MMM crowd kept ringing constantly into my land line. Aarrgghh.
I think there must be some marketing rule that user-friendly names begin with the letter "A." I received calls from Anna, Amy, Andrea, Alicia, Amelia and Abby. Repeatedly. In between, Jennifer and Diane each weighed in a few times from their recorded distance, but no one showed up like Naomi.
Naomi called from Bellefonte, Hollidaysburg, and Emlenton. And Townsville, Knox, Altoona, and Bedford. And DuBois, Snow Shoe, Rockwood, Hooversville, and Punxsutawney. And more. You get the idea. That girl really gets around. On my birthday, Naomi called 9 times out of the 17 sales calls I received throughout the day. I counted. Hacked me off.
At this advanced age, my reputation as a "slow study" is growing. It took me more than a week to realize I could block those calls. My anger is gradually calming, my normally happy attitude is slowly returning. Life is getting better but should be almost perfect by December - when the sales period ends.
But if your name is Naomi and you want to reach me about anything other than Medicare insurance, better send me an email first. And ask for permission. I'm not doing anything Naomi anytime soon. Better send Amy.
Marcy O'Brien, an award-winning columnist and essayist, can be reached at moby.32@hotmail.com.