Notes from Maine - 2023/06/25

Yesterday was Finn’s birthday. He’s a “fluffy” English Mastiff. And he’s old for an English Mastiff, but he still gets around pretty well. We had a nice quiet day of hanging around on the porch and reminding him how much I’ve enjoyed having him around for the past decade. Albert (young German Shepherd) doesn’t like quiet days, so he had several sessions of frisbee chasing mixed in. At the end of Finn’s birthday, when we were slowing down and thinking about being done with the day, Finn had the same contented look that he always does. There was no real difference for him between a birthday and any other day—he loves them all. It’s a nice way to be.

I’ve been chipping away at long-term projects, trying to make progress when it doesn’t seem like I have anything to show. My frustration showed when I was on the phone with Mom. She was driving my nephew to an appointment and, while they drove, my nephew was trying to hook up her phone to the car’s audio. Her last phone was hooked up, and the one before that. But now, she has no knowledge of this mysterious technology, even though it hasn’t changed. 

Being a teenager, my nephew has an intuitive grasp of the technology. But, as a teenager, he also has a contempt for anything that requires effort and loves to throw in the towel and declare something undoable. In this case, I had a very strong suspicion that the task was doable because I know that Mom had previous phones connected to her car. Unless something mysteriously broke, the capability was there.

“There’s no way to get to that menu,” my nephew said to me over the phone. 

Frustration level = 1.

“What happens when you hit the menu button?”

“Nothing. Wait. No. Nothing. I mean it does things, but not good things.”

Frustration level = 2.

“It says connecting. Connection failed.”

Frustration level = 3.

At this point I was trying to find an online manual or video to show me what to hit so I could convey that message to my nephew. Why are all instructions in YouTube videos now? I don’t want to watch someone doing it, I just want written instructions of how I can do it. Asking my nephew to consult the manual from the glove box would be like asking a dog to play a violin. It’s just not in his nature. He’s very smart—don’t get me wrong—but written instructions are like poison ivy to him. He won’t touch them.

“Now it’s giving me a code.”

I could hear my mother reading off the code very seriously like they’re part of a nuclear launch sequence. I want to yell to her to keep her eyes on the road.

“There’s nowhere to put them in,” my nephew says.

“There must be some…” I begin to say.

“Oh. Wait.”

The next voice was that of the car itself, telling all of us that the requested action couldn’t take place while the car was in motion. We had to stop in order to finish the operation.

It seemed like we were on a good path and, miraculously, this was right when Mom pulled into the parking lot of the appointment. 

“Gotta go,” my nephew said.

Frustration level = 4.

“Wait though!” I say. “Can you just…”

“Gotta go.”

I remained that that frustration level for an hour, waiting for the appointment to finish so we could conclude the configuration and be done with it. Why was it so important? It wasn’t. But this has been on our collective list for months now, and it seemed like an achievable thing that was right within our grasp. I can’t finish any other of my long-term projects today, but I could help them get this one thing done and then my mother wouldn’t be trying to use earbuds while she drives around her busy town.

When Mom called back an hour later, she was on to another adventure.

Frustration level = 9.

“Wait. What happened with the phone? What are you doing?” I demanded.

“Oh. I don’t know. We’re not doing that…”

Frustration level has now jumped to 99.

“Wait! Can’t we finish?” I yelled. “We were so close. It’s…”

I could hear her roll her eyes over the phone. With a sigh, she said. “Fine. Fine. Fine. I’ll go. Fine.”

A minute later my sister called. “What happened? Mom was supposed to go with me and then she turned around and stomped off.”

Back on the phone with my nephew and mother in the car, nothing was working.

“It doesn’t do anything,” he said.

“But can you get back to where it was when…”

“That doesn’t work. It doesn’t do anything.”

Now, I’m completely helpless. They’re stuck in some menu and I have no way to help. It’s not possible—what worked before has to work again. Menus don’t change. The problem is that this vehicle is from 2009—the year after my nephew was born. It’s so old that it just doesn’t make sense to him, and I can’t seem to help over the phone. My frustration is gone. It has turned into resignation and utter, debilitating sorrow. Nothing will get done today after all.

“Wait. It’s working,” he says. “It’s done.”

“What!? What did you do? How did you do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“But what did you hit? How did you…”

“I don’t know. It’s not going to work for long.”

“Why? What is…” I started to ask.

“She’s going to hit something and it will break,” my nephew says about his grandmother.

She is quick to agree. “I’ll hit something and it will break.”

“But…”

I realize that there’s nothing to say. For that moment—that one instance in time—her phone was connected to the car. I talked to her when she drove home. She loved being hands free. I would say that she “rediscovered” her love for being hands free, but she doesn’t remember that it always used to work that way before the change in her phone. 

Oh well. 

It was a good day.