They Should Sell a Patch for That

They Should Sell a Patch for That

A couple of weeks ago, the unthinkable happened. We suffered an Internet outage. Our fast access turned no access for four full days and nights due to a “maintenance incident.” I maintained that it was a ploy on the part of my husband to get a few things done around here.

I work from home as a freelance writer. My fondness for the Internet is no secret. I love the fact that I can research anything and everything at any given hour.

Do bluebirds nest more than once per season? Yes! How do I know that? We have a pair in our front yard that have done so, but just to confirm, I can read all about it and look at photos at www.bluebirdnut.com.

What’s the name of the song with the lyrics that go “If you ever go across the sea to Ireland?” That would be “Galway Bay.” Found that at Lyrics Depot at www.lyricsdepot.com.

What’s the best price on an Xbox Live 360? Lost my breath at www.pricegrabber.com. We did buy one. When the Internet access was out, the 15-year-old son experienced Gears of War withdrawal so bad he actually showed up for dinner the first time I called him.

Without Internet at home, I discovered that I could get a week’s worth of housecleaning done in a couple of days. I could read one of the countless books that stand ready on the shelves. Meals were ready early. There was more lap time for dogs and talk time for kids and listening time for spouses. At the end of the day, I was bone tired, the house was in order and I craved email so badly, I developed a debilitating tic.

“I can get online at the library,” I told my husband. “Tomorrow, if we don’t have internet, I’m going to turn on, log in and drop out from 9 a.m. until 5:30 p.m. Wait. Tomorrow’s Thursday. They’re open until 7:30!”

He regarded me with open disgust while checking work email on his Blackberry. “McDonald’s has WiFi right now,” he mumbled.

We were parked at a booth sipping Diet Cokes and basking in the glow of a laptop in less than fifteen minutes.

“I didn’t know you could drive like that,” said my white-knuckled husband.

“I didn’t know that was a turn lane, honest,” I said as the energy flowed from my Web mail and into my trembling fingertips.

None too soon, our Internet access returned at home. I caught up on email, read articles from a half dozen newspapers and checked the price on tea in China. OK, not really, but I could have checked on literally anything. Somehow, it just wasn’t the same.

The dogs looked like they lost their best friend. The beds weren’t made and the dishes sat in the sink. Postal mail sat neglected on the kitchen table.

Instead of reading a piece on underwater basket weaving, I got up and got busy. It felt good to get things done. I had left so many things for later.

Cormac McCarthy called my name from the cover of “The Crossing,” the second of a trilogy I started reading offline to soften my Internet cravings. His “All the Pretty Horses” took me to Texas and Mexico and reminded me of why I love the language, the beauty of timeless writing.

Books were meant to be held, pages flipped in the afternoon sun. A scrap of paper as a bookmark assures an easy restart should the impulse to write or cook or visit a neighbor arise. No logging in or out required.

Some things are best enjoyed away from a computer monitor, but sudden withdrawal can be a bit harsh. Somebody should make a patch for that.

They say tragedy can bring out the best in people. Perhaps an Internet outage isn’t a true calamity, but it can feel like it when you rely on it too much. Like anything, too much of a good thing can be bad. At least, that’s what I tell the dogs after so much belly scratching. When you want information, it’s good to be able to Google it. But when you want to live, the best of life is definitely found offline.

For Father's Day, Grab His Nose

For Father's Day, Grab His Nose

Late one evening as my dad was grading papers, I gave him something he never forgot. As I eased past his recliner, I grabbed his nose between two knuckles and squeezed. Hard. To this day, I have no idea why. I giggled devilishly, and he levitated from his chair.

“Good Lord!” he shouted. “What’d you do that for?” The tip of his nose had already turned crimson.

“Oh, wow, Dad, I’m sorry,” I choked between chortles. “I didn’t mean to squeeze that hard. I was just playing around.“ I felt bad, but not terribly so. This was the man who had horsed around with us kids millions of times with “horsey bites a pumpkin” moves on our knees, “turkey peeps over a log” tugs to our neck hair and the old “I’ve got your nose” trick. Admittedly, I took his a little more forcibly than was necessary.

He rubbed his inflamed nose and continued to mark papers.

The next morning, he bellowed from behind the bathroom door.

“Kristen Long!” My surname included. I was in trouble. Maybe it was just an empty toilet paper spindle.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, cowering in the hallway.

The door opened and there stood my dad, razor and shaving cream in hand. The urge to sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” proved nearly impossible to suppress. Dad had a perfect scarlet circle on the very end of his nose.

“How I am supposed to teach class with this?” He pointed at the offending mark. I tried to throttle a deep-seated need to laugh like a goon. The vision of him teaching college students with a big red dot on his nose didn’t help.

“Ummm, we could try some make –up,” I gasped. We studied the contents of my cosmetics bag. We tried a little Cover Girl. We put on a dab of powder. Now he had a pinkish-beige dot resembling ice cream residue or cake batter. He rubbed it all off with language as colorful as his nose. He headed out the door mumbling something about a bandana. I imagined his students held hostage by a masked instructor, lectures delivered from behind a smuggler’s kerchief. It’s shameful how hard I laughed at poor Dad’s expense.

He taught his classes, conducted his labs and bore the brunt of “red dot clearance sale” jokes all day. For the longest time, he flinched whenever I got near him. But he never punished me, never tried to get even. In no time, he laughed at the entire ordeal. He said he never saw such rapt attention as the day he taught school with a Rudolph nose.

This will be my first Father’s Day without Dad. So much of my daily routine reminds me of him. Silly songs, rambling rhymes, and memories made deeply bittersweet in his absence challenge my ability to smile instead of cry. He was the epitome of a teacher, always showing us kids a better way, the kind way, the way of a wonderful man with admirable character and a brilliant mind. To say I miss him is like saying I’m hungry after an insufferable fast.

What helps more than anything is to recall the example he set as a father. In times of sorrow, he persevered. In times of joy, he laughed loud and long. In times of suffering, he called on his faith. And in everything, he loved with a heart too big for words.

For the dads reading this, I’ll remind you of something no Sunday sales ad will. Whatever gifts you receive today, do not let this day get by you without telling your children what a gift they are to you. Because when all of the ties hang untouched in the closet, when all the tools rest idly in the workshop, when the sound of your father’s voice rises only in your memory, that is what your son or daughter will cling to on Father’s Day. As the ideal thank-you, give them the heartfelt expression of a father’s love and a gentle tweak to the nose.