Oh, The Trouble I've Seen

I have always slept very lightly. There are many disadvantages to this, of course. But there is one advantage, viz. I am the one with the story to tell in the morning.

I am the one who knows, for example, when the dogs barked away an hour of the night. And I am always a faithful reporter when it comes to night time storms, night time meteorites dramatizing the local atmosphere, night time discomfort of small siblings, and, well, the whereabouts and status of battery operated products.

It started a long time ago when Dad came home from a business trip and gave Abigail an alarm clock. Dad's employer at that time and some of his clients frequently dispensed complimentary "gifts" of various kinds--to Dad's benefit. These "gifts" ranged from the obligatory coffee cups and pens to such novelties as calculators and alarm clocks. Most of these "gifts" were inherited by Dad's children. Abigail was probably around six at the time she became the proud owner of her very first alarm clock. I suppose when acquired at that age the alarm clock was something in the way of destined to become a toy.

John and Abigail used to spend hours playing "house" in my bedroom. The alarm clock made a useful accessory to the game. At the end of the game, John and Abigail would go to eat a real dinner and the alarm clock would lie forgotten in my bedroom. Sometime in the middle of the night, Katie would awaken to the sound of the alarm clock going off. Somehow, John and Abigail always, always, ALWAYS left it on. AND always left it in a different place in the room. While sound-sleeping Abigail dreamed sweetly, I would spend several minutes at a time fumbling about the dark room trying to find the alarm clock guided only by its insistent, clamoring sound. Usually it ended up being under the bed, behind the books on the bookcase, or deep in the closet. Sometimes, I had to turn on the light to find it. Never, in all the many times this scene was redrawn, did Abigail wake up.

Later, we lived in a large house with very tall, vaulted ceilings. The house met all the required fire safety regulations, including a liberal sprinkling of smoke alarms throughout the house. Grateful as I always am to know when a smoke alarm's batteries are dying, I have never figured out why these batteries always begins to die at night. And how, with the loud "CHIRP" cutting the silence at five minute intervals, everyone else manages to sleep soundly. Worst, there was no hope of a quick, peaceful conclusion it was generally the smoke alarms attached to the highest points of the highest ceilings...the kind that required a twenty foot ladder to access.

Most recently, my night hours have been made most interesting by the antics of Pauls' electronics. Between his interest in computers and all things computerized, and his job at a cell phone company, he has acquired quite a collection of battery operated equipment. And I have spent some portion of some of my nights learning which is which by the sounds they make when their respective batteries die.

Last night, one of his cell phones disturbed an especially quiet night by announcing that its batteries were giving up the ghost. Disgusted, I turned over, schooled myself to ignore the sound, and went back to sleep. I thereby discovered that I have become no more able to be satisfied by sleeping in five minute increments than I ever was.

Finally, giving up on peaceful coexistence, I got up and stumbled out to the main room to find the cell phone. It was only then, as I was shuffling about trying to find it in the dark guided only by its sound, that the battery gasped out its final breath and I heard the phone die. I don't believe there is a moral to this story.