Phone woes

Age, I guess, is relative.

To some, I look young. Technology-wise, I'm ancient, darn-near extinct.

You see, as we struggled Tuesday with the telephone and 9-1-1 crisis, I realized I learned my telephone number with letters.

No. I wasn't ancient enough to have to speak to an operator and ask for call to be placed, Andy Griffith style. We did dial the numbers we wanted.

But party lines were common.

And the letters.

Yep, that's right. Letters.

Actually, I don't remember mine. I remember my dad's business number: EL3-2808. It was plastered everywhere. I had stickers on all my toys. Maybe I got the stickers as they were phasing out the letters and going to all numbers.

But that was the number all right. It's imprinted on my brain.

Of course, you can't call it anymore.

You see, they've changed the area code.

Oh, yeah. That was another hassle.

I mean, what's with that? I had to relearn my mom's phone number. I grew up with that number. Just dialed it automatically. And all of a sudden someone decided that Columbus was more important than the little people in southern Ohio.

Columbus always seems to get the priority, whether it's southern or northern Ohio. We folks on the fringes just don't get any respect.

Even when it comes to a phone number.

I had to laugh when I got a new cell phone a few years back. The company advertised they covered 95 percent of the nation. Guess where they didn't cover? You got it ... those little fringes of northern and southern Ohio.

At least we haven't gone back to the days of collect calls.

What?

Please tell me you remember those.

Even at the ripe old age of 4, my brothers and sisters in college taught me to accept a collect call. We'd chat for a few minutes before I'd hand the phone off to my parents who didn't realize they were actually paying for the call.

Until they got the bill.

Actually, I think my siblings probably coached me to always answer the phone. But I'm not sure, just an idea.

Their calls to me aren't collect anymore. I'm still getting their messages, though.

Just couldn't get back to one of them Tuesday night.

Should have tried EL3-2808 ...

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Teresa M. Melcher is editor of The Bryan Times. She can be reached at tmelcher@bryantimes.com or 419-636-1111.

One in five

As Americans we pride ourselves on our work ethic, our ability to weather any storm, take care of ourselves.

And then we are faced with the bold-faced lie.

I saw that today.

A press release crossed my desk just after deadline. It touted the 40th anniversary of the U.S. Department of Agriculture's Food and Nutrition Service. Proudly, the release said, the program serves one in five Americans.

OK, from where you're sitting, count it out. One, two, three, four, five.

You can see the person who might be hungry without government help.

They may be getting food stamps, school lunches, WIC or other emergency help.

And while I'm happy such help is available, what does that say about a country where one in five people must seek help just to sustain life?

Remember the line: "Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness ..." It might be hard to memorize when your stomach is growling or you are trying to figure out if you can afford lunch and dinner tonight.

It doesn't matter if you've supported Republican causes all your life or you think President Obama is right on target; the fact that as many as 20 percent of Americans could need food assistance has to worry you.

Luckily, we live in a climate where many of us can grow our own food. It may be as small as few tomato plants on a window sill or a patch out back with some lettuce. And we can get down to the Farmers' Market for fresh items and good deals.

But many aren't so lucky. Some don't have the means.

In our larger cities, residents can't always get to fresh markets and don't have access to backyards, farms and the know-how to help themselves.

I'd like to think as the "sturdy Midwesterners" we sometimes proclaim to be, we haven't forgotten how to dig a hole for a pepper plant, how to weed around a vegetable bed or pluck apples from a tree for a pie.

Fewer and fewer Williams County residents make their livings solely from farms. The world changes and so must we. But we can't forget the knowledge that will sustain us.

Maybe it's time to make sure the next generation knows what the soil feels like, that worms aren't only a type of neo-colored candy and that not all food comes in cellophane.

One in five get help from the government with food. One, two, three, four, five. Count it out. Can you see who is hungry? Who is getting government help?

I remember Mary, blonde hair, blue eyes and laughing.

She was the first young person I knew who died.

I thought about her Monday as I watched two Bryan kids riding a bike down High Street. One was pedaling; the other was standing on the back of the bike, holding on — most of the time.

You see, Mary died in a bike accident. She had taken her brother’s new bike out for a test ride. It was a 10-speed, all the rage in my day, and Mary was weaving in and out of cars on a busy street. That was before any of us had even thought of wearing a helmet.

The kids Monday didn’t have helmets on either.

Mary’s death soured me on riding bikes. When you’re in the fourth grade and you lead the Girl Scouts up the aisle in the church before a sixth-grader’s casket, well, it makes an impression on you.

I didn’t ride bikes much after that. And I haven’t changed my personal opinion in adulthood.

Oh, I don’t think they are horrible monsters of death. I just prefer to walk.

And to see kids with helmets.

If your children or the neighbor’s kids are out riding bikes in Bryan, it’s time for you to get them helmets. Please, let the Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts enjoy their summer. They shouldn’t have to attend any funerals.

Mary’s was more than enough.

Inauguration reflections

Most of us in the newsroom are news junkies.

When something big happens, we know. We all have little anecdotes to share about similar experiences.

As I watched the inauguration Tuesday, I tried to pick out familiar places in that vast sea of thousands and thousands of faces. I wanted to see if I could find some of the places I knew, places I'd been in the area.

Several times, I've enjoyed a hot dog sitting on a park bench in the middle of the Mall. The view from one of those benches allowed me to watch the traffic from the Capitol to the Washington Monument or beyond. I've watched a laser light show — when those were the latest thing — on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. And I've hurried from one end of the grassy plain to the other, hoping I could get to the Metro station in time to make the train.

But I was amazed by those around me who said they had never been to Washington. I'm lucky, I guess, that my parents valued history. My father worked in a family business; you know, the kind that if you're in town, you're working.

So for vacations, we left town. And we often went somewhere that offered free, or very cheap, entertainment.

You can't get much cheaper than the Smithsonian. From its seemingly endless storehouse of planes, trains and automobiles, to artwork, to the majesty of George Washington's home on the Potomac River, the area is an endless wonder for Americans and foreign visitors alike. If you stay out of the gift shops, it isn't very expensive, either.

I gave up counting how many times I've visited the capital. But I always see something new.

I've been on a bus tour in the evening. Seeing all the sights at night ... that was special. I remember going when I was 7, thinking how lonnnnnng the blocks were, especially since I had blisters on my feet.

I remember finding the name of a nurse from Ohio who was killed in Vietnam, one of only a handful of nurses who have their names on the Vietnam Wall. And an evening visit to the Jefferson Memorial, reading his words as the basin water sparkled behind us, was memorable.

Washington should be our Mecca, especially if, as Abraham Lincoln proposed in 1838, that laws are our political religion.

Here's hoping you can get there soon.

Resolutions

Get organized.

Everyone raise your hand if that's part of your New Year's resolution.

If you've had the pleasure (or displeasure as the case may be) of wondering into The Bryan Times newsroom, you can easily find my desk. It's the messiest one.

I'd like to say it's because I'm so busy, so overwhelmed with work, just too taxed for the mundane tasks like clearing my desk.

But I'd be lying.

My desk has been a mess everywhere I've worked.

In fact, when I worked at the museum in Auburn, one of the volunteers used to joke he never saw wood while I was there. Maybe that's why I got the metal desk at The Times. I have to work my way up to the wood one.

I really do have good intentions. And it's not that I don't appreciate a clean desk. It's just that I don't seem to make the time. I seem to have an affection for sticky notes. And those newspapers seem to stack up, no matter what I do.

I am, however, very good at telling others what they should throw out. I can do that rather well. Oh, there are occasions when I get into a pitching mood. (note the letter; it's not a b; that's another subject entirely). And I do sometimes clean. But not enough.

Any confessions from like-minded messy workers? What's the secret to a clean office environment (besides threats from the boss ... after all, his office isn't much better!) Help us, please! Save us from our clutter.