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From the Nethermost
And, I am not talking about conversations that I have with folks at the Post Office. After all, if I am there and not wearing my hearing aids, I just lean forward, cup my ear, and shout, "Say what?" It's what folks say on my answering machine that prompts this plea for articulation. Here is an example. Last spring, I came in from clearing brush at the edge of The Nethermost, walked to the refrigerator for a glass of sweet tea, and noticed that the light was blinking on the answering machine. I put my head at the right angle to see all those buttons through my bifocals and pushed the one that said PLAY. The caller's voice came on loud and clear. It was loud because I have the volume control pushed up to maximum. It was clear because the speaker also grew up around Selma. The voice was that of a long lost high school classmate. He said he now lived in Mississippi. That was good to know. He said that it was important for us to talk as soon as possible. That set me to worrying about what could possibly be so important that we needed to talk after his being in hiding for more that 50 years. He wanted me to call. And, I wanted to hear what he had to say. He must have known that he should tell me his telephone number so I could call him. Maybe that's what he said next. What I heard was a staccato fired so rapidly that I really was not sure if it was a telephone number. It was definitely not a sound that comes from the back of a human's throat. All the variations in sound must have been produced by the tip of his tongue - no lip movement, no jaw movement, no expulsion of air such as can be produced by the contraction of the human diaphragm. Whatever the cause for his failed attempt to reach me is now lost. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night and wonder at what tragedy I caused by not being able to call back. Was it a plea for help, a request for a financial donation to some favorite charity, or simply a solicitation of a vote in some upcoming regional election? If you have called me since that failed communication, you know the change I have made to my answering machine message. First, I say my telephone number. Each digit is said individually, distinctly, and with precision. Then, I ask the caller to say their number. That request is followed by a one word sentence. The sentence has an implied subject and predicate. The entire sentence is simply this adverb: Slowly. Some callers think the message on my answering machine is funny. They try to respond with humor. With some regularity, I get a message with three one word sentences: Call. Your. Brother. He thinks that's funny. Not me. I have to go searching to find his telephone number. When I call to his attention that if he had followed the instructions, he could have saved me the trouble of rooting around in my office files. He proceeds to chide me for not being thoroughly modern. He says I should have rigged my telephone so that by pushing one of those other buttons, the phone would automatically beep out his telephone number onto the line. I give him the same response over and over. "Next time you come for a visit, fix that for me." I know he'll forget to do that, and I'll forget to remind him. Even some Grove Hill friends have a weird sense of humor. For example, the phone rang the other day. I answered after the second ring. The caller asked me to hang up. She called because she wanted to hear my answering machine message - to hear it again! The message I found on the answering machine last Saturday left me in a quandary. This person followed the instructions, but not with the precision I had illustrated in the message. There was nothing but a telephone number. I know it was a telephone number because there were seven sounds uttered. The first sound was two. I could not tell if the second sound was four or six. You'd think these two numbers sound differently. Wouldn't you? A part of my problem is that my telephone number, except for one digit in the prefix, is exactly the same as that of the Alabama Power Company. Instead of starting with 275, the Power Company number starts with 245. Note that 4 is next to 7 on the touch pad. Can you imagine the number of people who call, say their name, say their number slowly, and then ask that I call as soon as possible? I do. If only they had said on my answering machine that they wanted their lights turned on. That's not what they say when I call back. Rather, they tell me in language inappropriate for human consumption how unhappy they are that their residential lights are out. When they pause for a breath, I say the telephone number for the Alabama Power Company Residential Service. I say it slowly. Then, I ask them if they wear bifocal glasses, as I do. They usually respond with a very short sentence. If they had been raised by my mother, they would have said Sorry instead. Maybe I will change the message on my answering machine. If your residential lights are out, the Alabama Power Company phone number is … and I will say that number. Slowly.
Jim Herod is a retired Georgia Tech mathematics professor living in Grove Hill.
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