That's Life: Leave a Message
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I should have had an answering machine when my children, Jennifer and Christopher, were teenagers. The phone was constantly ringing, and most of the calls were for them. In my role as secretary, I answered the phone and took messages for the children when they were out. I walked many a mile in those years, rushing from the living room to answer the wall phone in the kitchen.
Soon after my husband, Bill, and I moved to Williamstown — our children were grown and living on their own — Christopher, who was living in Michigan, gave us an answering machine.
"You are never home when I call," he had said. It is true that in our earliest days in Williamstown, we were "gadabouts." Like children in a candy store, we were eager to sample all the cultural "goodies" the area offered.
What Christopher did not mention was that I talked to his answering machine more than I did to him. That message machine must have grown bored with hearing me say, "This is just a hello call. I love you."
According to some parents, such a benign message would not inspire their children to return their call. Their children only respond to such messages as, "I had to go to the doctor's today" or "I'm flying out to see you."
Some messages never reach the people for whom they are intended.
A friend's daughter does not check for messages on her answering machine. "And I bought it for her," he said.
"My grandchildren erase the messages and then forget to tell their father that I called," one woman complained.
When Alice M's friend called her one evening, she did not even ask Alice, "How are you today?" but immediately took Alice to task. "So, where were you? I waited at the restaurant for an hour."
"What do you mean?" Alice asked, having no idea of what her friend was talking about.
"I left a message on your answering machine, telling you to meet me for dinner," Alice's friend replied.
That would have been impossible as Alice did not have an answering machine.
It is unlikely Alice and her friend will ever know who received the message meant for Alice, or if she or he waited in vain at the restaurant.
One evening I had reason to question whether my answering machine was working. My dear friend Bess called from her home in Pittsfield at 7 that evening, as she does most evenings. It is our habit to talk a half hour or an hour, solving all the world's problems, and chatting about what we did that day.
"I went to Walmart today, like I told you this morning," Bess said that evening.
"We didn't talk earlier today." I said. (Now and then, I am not able to remember if I locked the front door before going to bed, but I have never forgotten within a few hours that I have spoken to a friend.)
Bess explained that morning she had left a message on my answering machine. "There were no messages when I came home around noon," I said.
That evening Bess called me a second time, recounting a phone conversation she had just had with her sister-in-law Marge, who lives in Springfield.
"So you went to Walmart today," Marge had said to Bess.
"How did you know that?" Bess had asked.
"I found a message from you when I came home from work," Marge had replied.
So, the mystery of the missing message was solved: Bess had mistakenly pressed Marge's number on speed dial that morning.
Great technological advances have been made in the last few decades, but the genius who would be able to discover how to prevent human error has yet to be born. Oh well, at least, pencils come with erasers on the end.
