It strikes me that no matter how carefully you try to prepare for life’s little emergencies, something you haven’t thought of always jumps up and bites you on the butt.
Happened to me this week. You may have heard my stories about being able to live for some time without electricity. I am prepared to do that. Proud that I can. We got along for more than a month after Hugo. It’s hard to say how long, exactly, because I’ve noticed the length of time the power was off tends to increase each time we tell the story.
So when we had heavy storms Tuesday, I checked my candles, batteries and camp stove and figured I was ready for whatever.
Never even thought about losing the telephone.
When I couldn’t get a dial tone, I assumed I’d done something wrong with my cordless phone after the lights flickered. But the plug-in didn’t work either, so I got out the little wireless to report the problem.
I didn’t do a very good job of explaining the situation, I guess, because the woman who took the call thought I was telling her I had a problem with the wireless phone. “No, I am calling you on the wireless,” I said.
“Well, I can hear you just fine,” she said.
“My regular phone doesn’t work,” I said.
“You’re having a problem with your standard phone?”
“Yes,” I said, “And with my cordless phone, too. I can’t get a dial tone.”
“I can hear you just fine,” she said.
“That’s because I am reporting this on my wireless.”
It was three days before service was restored, and every time I tried to check on progress I went through something similar because I had to call on my wireless, which automatically dumps the 611 call into the wireless department.
Not having my telephone line meant I didn’t have my Internet connection either, so that ended my writing and e-mailing stories to the Post. That’s OK, I thought, because I have so many other things to do. I’ll get out my checkbook and call the bank’s automatic accounting system to figure my balance. I was seated at the desk, with the checkbook open and the cordless phone in my hand before I realized that wasn’t going to work.
The wireless wasn’t an option for calls involving numbers because the signal breaks up. Probably I’m not using it right. Must learn.
In fact, I was trying to practice when I called my friend Dr. Crane, who kept insisting he was only hearing about every fifth word I spoke. I don’t know if that’s true or not, though, because he soon launched into a long commentary about all the bad things that were going to happen to me because my signal broke up.
He said I’d dial 911 and the dispatchers would hear, “Help. Someone’s breaking into my house at pfffffffft.
He said I’d call AAA and they’d hear me requesting tow service just off Interstate pfffffffft at exit shftttt.
He said I’d get a call from Publisher’s Clearinghouse telling me to collect my million bucks at 1-800-275pfffft.
He was making me laugh, but I couldn’t let him have the last word. I fixed his wagon. I said, “Dr. Crane, I’ve been meaning to tell you that pfffffffffffffffffft.” And I hung up. Yep, fixed his pfffffffffft, I did.
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Contact Sara Pitzer at spitzer@vnet.net .
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