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Electronic gadgets
Published October 29, 2009
The Ruths, like every other Coke County ranching family, performed numerous early morning duties. Initially, I gathered eggs and fed the house animals. Later on, I helped milk and did other barn jobs. These tasks, completed well before spoon touched oatmeal, never experienced outside hindrances — well, almost never.
When I started doing morning chores, easily carried communication or entertainment mechanisms didn’t exist. That had changed by my 11th birthday when I got a turquoise pocket transistor radio. Complete with earplug, it was my passport to “being with it.” I was stunned to receive it in April. My plan had been to talk about it constantly in the hope it might appear under the Christmas tree. Dad and Grandpa said I deserved a special present because I had become such a “good hand” around the place. After we had chocolate cake, I demonstrated how my new radio could pick up station KOMA in Oklahoma City — provided I leaned out from under the roof eaves on the northeast corner of our front porch. I carried the device everywhere, and it began working its mischief fairly quickly. Oddly enough, our three milk cows did not appreciate hearing the likes of Little Richard at 6 a.m. As there had been a couple of prior admonishments about “fiddlin’ with that damn thing instead of filling your milk bucket,” my father and grandfather sided with the bovines, and I was instructed to leave the radio at the house.
At a gathering of ex-teachers, one couple kept grousing about their grandchildren. Having no first-hand experience, I assumed listener status and got more than an earful. Aside from the blood connection, the man and woman maintained there was nothing appealing about the three young people in question. They did not blame the parents — stressing that the first and second generations were equally disgusted with the third. Basically, it boiled down to the fact that the kids showed no interest in anything other than electronic gizmos. From chores to fun stuff, everything took a back seat to texting or vegging with iPods. In short, Mawmaw and Pawpaw spent the evening bemoaning that their once promising namesakes were now unimaginative, lazy slugs.
Sometimes, one becomes an eavesdropping voyeur when minding his own business. While bagging avocados, I heard a ringtone emanate from the purse of a woman standing nearby. The sound was followed by a sulking preteen’s whine. “Mooooom, that’s Bethany. It’s the third time she’s called.” The mother’s expression had “last straw” written all over it. With her final bit of calm, she locked eyes with her daughter and said, “I will not tell you this again. Until you start helping around the house, the cell phone is mine.” Slam dunk delivered, her concluding five words effectively vaporized any possible rejoinder.
Complaints about young people are nothing new — just ask Socrates or Plato. I suppose today’s “ubertechnology” has centralized the carping somewhat. However, the lamenting grandparents (and the parents, for that matter) should follow the grocery store lady’s lead. If an authority figure elects to employ his or her power, no handheld piece of equipment stands a chance.
After my radio’s banishment, I had enough smarts not to protest. However, I lacked sufficient brains to dissuade myself from trying to circumvent Dad’s directive.
The earplug was the answer — I could have my music, and cows, fathers and grandpas would be none the wiser. Everything went fine until the tiny audio implant slipped out of my ear. Static and buzzing broke the dawn’s stillness. Bonnie, the cow I was milking, reacted with a dangerous hoof stomping tirade. I saved the milk from spilling, but, when the cow’s tail caught the earplug cord, my little box of “coolness” leapt from pocket to barn floor — plopping right in the middle of Bonnie’s most recent, steaming deposit.
Dad witnessed both flight and landing as he yanked me from harm’s way. His anger was ominously quiet, and I knew my electronic distraction days were history. Observing the turquoise raft afloat on a cow pie sea, Dad said, “Clean it off, and give it to me.”
In retrospect, the radio should have been one of my Christmas gifts. That’s when I got it back.
John Ruth may be reached at jbr(at)ktc.com.
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