I have never admired those who preach one sermon and live another, figuratively speaking, which means I try very hard not to be a hypocrite. Oh, I have a great many flaws and occasionally even this one, but I do try.
Trying means I am not in a position to trash social media since, to say the least, I am a devotee of Facebook. I confess that I enjoy seeing the new photos of my nieces, following the latest national news, voicing my opinion on matters large and small (even when it is not sought), and having a bully pulpit — the same one everyone else has — to spread the gospel according to David. And that does not even begin to consider all the other forms of social media as close as our iPhones.
Well, today I am remembering a different kind of communication. I am remembering my mama standing on the front porch and hollering across the thicket for four rowdy boys to come to supper. She never sent us a single text. I am remembering the party line my Great Aunt Mattie talked on and how each house on the road had a unique ring so we could tell who was getting the call. Now that’s not to say folks with different rings didn’t lift the receiver to eavesdrop as often as not, but that’s another matter. Come to think, it’s not that different than the issue of “Internet privacy” we hear people discussing today.
A whole generation, maybe even two since my grandparents, is coming of age without a clue what I am even talking about when I speak of party lines, but instead of explaining I think I’ll send the curious to the library to find out more. Yes, I realize the “library” for most folks these days is called Google and the source of record is called Wikipedia.
Let me hasten to say that I am not judging, not really, or at least if I am judging a bit, I am including myself in the lineup of the guilty, still not teetering on the seesaw of hypocrisy. I appreciate all of the innovations that technology has brought us. I value that those I love can be on the other side of the country and use a mobile phone to tell me their flight has landed safely. I enjoy the secret pleasure (well, not-so-secret anymore) that I can follow the posts of InStyle magazine editor-in-chief Ariel Foxman with lightning speed.
Still, some mornings I wake up remembering the sound of Mama’s voice shouting through the thicket and the memory of those Southern ladies talking, really talking and really listening, on the party line, and I wonder: Is this all such an innovation after all?
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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