A common,
American phenomenon disappeared in the 1990s. I blame it on cell phones. When I
was a kid in the late 1960s and early 1970s, I’d hop on my bicycle on a
Saturday or during summer and ride off to my friend’s house for the day. The
only admonishment I received from my mother was to be home by dinnertime. I did
not differ from any of my friends. We all had an internal clock, which ticked
louder and louder as suppertime loomed. We listened for a distinct signal that
meant it was time to go home.
It didn’t matter what I was doing or where I was, I could hear my dad’s booming voice from blocks away. My friends immediately understood they were next, and their mothers or fathers would signal them soon. Before there were 4G networks and text messages, there was the neighborhood network. Often, adult neighbors or other kids relayed the dispatch to me. “Michael, your father is calling you.” Sometimes, I’d be too involved in a game of baseball, or watching television in a friend’s living room and I would miss the call. If one of my siblings came looking for me, or if my father had to get in the car and drive through the neighborhood, I knew I was in trouble.
Doing this today with my children would be odd and unnecessary. They both have cell phones. My twelve-year-old son has a cell phone so he can text us from his friends’ homes or school if he needs a ride. Because she needs to visit friends often, my daughter, seventeen, has a car. My wife and I would be terrible parents if we deprived our kids of these devices. During my teenage years, I couldn’t imagine digging into my pocket to answer a call from my mother in the middle of a baseball game with my buddies. Today, my children expect me to text them.
Just once I’d like to stand on my front porch and shout my son’s name at dinner time. He’d be at his friend’s house down the block. I imagine him in the driveway, riding a skateboard with his pal, and he’d stop the moment he heard my voice. He’d look up. I would wave and be transported back to a time in my life when simplicity and necessity merged and created a charming and unique tradition. Moments later, I’d reach into my pocket and read a text message from my son asking, “Why are you yelling at me?”
