The Days We Were Plugged In… and Didn’t Even Know It

By Mark Morgan

www.markmorganbooks.com

I got to thinkin’ the other day about how folks talk about bein’ “connected” now, like it’s some brand-new invention.

But I remember a time when you couldn’t get more connected if you tried… mainly because you was physically tied to the wall.

I’m talkin’ about that old telephone cord.

Back when privacy meant stretchin’ a curly yellow cord clear down the hallway, duckin’ behind a door, and whisperin’ like you was tradin’ state secrets. That cord would stretch so far it looked like a slinky that’d been through hard times.

You’d be twisted up in it like a calf in barbed wire, hopin’ nobody walked in while you was sayin’ somethin’ important… or worse, somethin’ embarrassing.

And if somebody picked up the other phone in the house?

Buddy, that conversation ended quicker than a screen door in a tornado.

These days, folks got phones that fit in their pocket, but they ain’t got no place to go with ‘em. They walk around the house talkin’ out loud like they’re hostin’ a radio show nobody asked for.

Got all the freedom in the world… and still look about as lost as a goose in a gravel pit.

Then there was summertime ridin’ in the back of a station wagon.

Now I ain’t talkin’ about these fancy air-conditioned SUVs with cupholders and seat warmers. I’m talkin’ about the way back—that rear-facin’ seat where you waved at every car behind you like you was leadin’ a parade you didn’t sign up for.

And those seats?

Vinyl.

Hotter than a two-dollar pistol layin’ on a tin roof in July.

You’d sit down and it’d grab hold of your legs like it had a personal vendetta. Felt like it was tryin’ to peel you like a boiled potato.

You didn’t just sit—you committed.

And heaven help you if you was wearin’ shorts.

You’d hop up hollerin’ and dancin’ around like a cat on a hot griddle, while your mama told you to “sit still” like that was even a reasonable request.

Nowadays, kids got climate control, tinted windows, and screens in the headrests… and still ask, “Are we there yet?” five minutes into the trip.

We had nothin’ but heat, imagination, and a bologna sandwich sweatin’ in a paper sack—and we thought we was livin’ high on the hog.

And don’t even get me started on this “paperless office” business.

They say it’s progress.

Used to be, if you lost your work, it was because the dog ate it, the wind took it, or you left it sittin’ on the hood of the truck and drove off like you had better sense than you did.

Now?

One little lightning strike, one hiccup in the system, and poof—your whole day disappears into thin air like a magician’s rabbit.

You ain’t lost it… it’s just “in the cloud.”

Well I don’t trust nothin’ I can’t point at.

That’s like sayin’ your paycheck’s floatin’ around somewhere above the courthouse and you just gotta believe in it.

Makes a man feel about as useful as a solar-powered flashlight in a coal mine.

Folks got backups for their backups now, and still panic quicker than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs when the screen freezes up.

But I got to thinkin’ on all this, sittin’ there on the porch, watchin’ the sun go down over Waldron.

We used to be tied to cords… now we’re tied to signals.

We used to get burned by hot seats… now we get burned by dead batteries.

We used to lose papers… now we lose passwords.

Different problems… same confusion.

But one thing hasn’t changed none.

The best parts of life never needed a cord, a signal, or a screen.

They happened in the middle of the noise… the laughter… the people sittin’ right there beside you.

Moral of the story:

We may have traded cords for Wi-Fi and paper for clouds…

But the things that matter most?

They still don’t come with a charger.