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At the sound
of the tone ...

My cell phone voice mailbox is always full. No one can ever leave messages for me, and people always scold me about that. It's not that I'm so popular. I just haven't had time to delete my messages.

Funny, when cellular phones first became available to the masses, they were justified for emergency use only. Now it's not uncommon to see people in a group, not conversing with each other, but to someone else on the other end of his or her phone.

And the messages left have gotten longer. Instead of "Call me" or "I'm going to be 10 minutes late," I'll get one-minute monologues.

But those aren't why I'm at full capacity. In this profession, most of us have a little gadget that can connect a phone to a tape recorder for telephone interviews, following a strict code of ethics, of course. Truth is, my voice mailbox is full because I haven't had the time to transfer my digital messages to tape.

It's not as psycho as it sounds. I do delete messages -- except for keepers from my son. As a single mom, I welcome his long messages and record some before hitting "delete."

Five years from now, when he calls from the reputable mainland college he's attending (cross my fingers) and leaves me voice mail to wire him money (I can only hope not), I'll have these imprints to remind me of simpler times that I had not appreciated for the easy days that they were.

I FIRST NOTICED his knack for ad-lib under pressure when at the tender age of 3 he was instructed to record our home answering machine's outgoing message. Without skipping a beat, on cue and in just one take, came the sound of his teeny voice: "We're not home right now. Leave a message."

"OK," I said, "Say 'bye.'"

He continued, tape running, "See you later, see you laaater, seeeeeyouuuLAAATer," then sped off, destination toy box.

But it was a message left as intercept after I received a voice mail from his seventh-grade teacher to return his call that inspired my transfer-to-tape-for-posterity habit:

"Hi Mom, I'm just calling to tell you that Mr. Martin called because (sneeze) I get a little loud sometimes in class (cough), and I told him sorry and that I would try to be quieter next time, as he might mention when you call him. (sneeze) I'm going to rest a bit and read my book now. OK, I love you."

Although I've transferred that to cassette tape, it stays in my cell archive as remedy for a dreary day or for when life's dramas seem out of hand. That moment in time is a bright spot I can count on, reminding me of stuff that truly matters.

Voices can provide the same impact as a photograph. The sound, tone, inflections, can transport one to the recesses of our memory banks, a place where one can almost touch that instant, relive the smells, tastes and feelings.

Six months after that "Mr. Martin" message, my son's voice took on a scratchy bass timbre. Six months later it leveled out.

These days, conversations with my tween are heavily one-sided, his responses monosyllabic. Grunts of "Ugh," "Yah," "No," "Mmph" are common.

Unless he's leaving voice mail.

"Hi Mom, it's me. Just want to tell you that I'm home. I might hop on my bike and go to Bubbies Ice Cream. I'll call again if I do."

I'm told the grunts are just a phase, and like the others we've endured, I try to patiently ride it out.

He's at that age where he'd be livid if he knew this would appear in the newspaper, but because he's not really talking anyway, I'm not sure I'd know the difference.

My fail-safe is that it's summer and his friends are like him, more interested in playing computer games, fishing and surfing than reading the family section of the newspaper. If this comes back to haunt me, I'll know his friends' parents ratted me out. In which case, I'd have to promise him I'll retire this habit to continue receiving his all-important voice mails.

This so-called phase, which ties in with his graduating from middle school, hasn't affected his penchant for conversation with the world at large, a good thing, and I take delight at being privy to some of those.

At the barber's recently, he and Charley discussed the pros and cons of high school uniforms as he sat in the chair for his haircut. "So," said Charley, "you think uniforms are a good thing."

"Yeah, otherwise too many posers," he said, in his matter-of-fact tone. "In my summer school last year, the girls actually wore boxer shorts that were almost just 1-by-1-inch square."

Eyeing his new cut in the mirror, he added, "Not that I'm complaining."

Wish I had that on tape.

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