Tag Archives: Cell Phone

Common Sense; It Should Come Standard

16 Saturday May 2026

Posted by in Family, Life, Photography, Uncategorized

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I lost my temper with a stranger today. I’m not proud of it. In fact, I’m pretty ashamed that I let myself get that worked up. I guess part of the problem was that I expected a little common sense from a fellow human being. Apparently, that was asking too much.

Normally, I would’ve filled up my truck right after church, but since I won’t be attending tomorrow due to another commitment, I decided to get fuel while my wife and I were already out meeting our two daughters and their boyfriends for lunch.

The gas station in question was the fuel center at Sam’s Club. Around here, they usually have the cheapest gas prices, which also means they usually have lines long enough to qualify as a minor traffic event.

I noticed the two end pumps had shorter lines, so I eased into one of them. The setup beside a concrete median meant once you got in line, you were committed unless you could somehow back out.

There were three vehicles ahead of me: a small car, a pickup truck behind her, and directly in front of me, an SUV.

At some point, both the SUV driver and I noticed the pickup driver put the nozzle back on the pump. Naturally, we assumed he was finished fueling and simply waiting for the lady in front of him to leave so he could pull out.

Wrong.

The lady left, and instead of driving away, the pickup driver pulled forward to the next pump and started over. That’s when we realized something wasn’t right.

Turns out, the pump he had been using was out of order.

Now the SUV in front of me was stuck trying to get fuel from a dead pump, and I was trapped behind it. I tried easing backward, but another vehicle had already pulled in behind me.

This is where the story takes a turn.

I looked behind me and saw a woman sitting in her car. No one was behind her. All she needed to do was back up a few feet so I could get out.

I got out of my truck and motioned for her to reverse.

Nothing.

I waved bigger.

Still nothing.

I even yelled directions while making motions large enough to guide aircraft onto a runway.

Nothing.

At this point, I honestly couldn’t tell if she wasn’t paying attention or if she simply had no earthly idea what my “wild arm flailing” meant. I’ll admit, I was getting irritated fast.

Finally, I got back in my truck and started inching backward anyway. That’s when she honked at me.

That was the exact moment my temper left the building.

I climbed out, walked to her window, and very firmly — and not exactly politely — informed her that I had been trying for the last ten minutes to get her to back up because the pump was broken.

Her response?

“You didn’t tell me to back up.”

Apparently, years of directing traffic with hand gestures have failed me. Either that, or she had never encountered the universal sign for “please move your vehicle before I lose my religion.”

She eventually backed up… though not nearly enough. I somehow managed to squeeze my truck out and circle around to another line.

As I was doing this, a young guy in the next lane who had witnessed the entire circus was laughing so hard I thought he might need oxygen.

His exact words were:

“Your hand gestures were plain enough for a chimpanzee to understand. I guess you can’t fix stupid.”

Now, before anyone nominates me for “Christian of the Year,” let me say this: I know I was wrong for losing my temper. I absolutely was.

But I will also say this — while my mouth got ahead of my better judgment, there were several things my brain suggested that thankfully never made it out loud.

So maybe there’s growth there.

The whole thing could’ve ended much worse than it did. I may have shown my rear end a little, but eventually she understood the message I was trying to convey:

Put the phone down and pay attention to what’s going on around you.

Because if she had been paying attention in the first place, she would’ve noticed the broken pump… and the growing collection of trapped vehicles trying desperately to escape fuel-line purgatory.

Confessions of a Closet Radio Nerd

16 Friday Jan 2026

Posted by in Amateur Radio

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In a group discussion today, I was asked to tell something about myself that no one else knew. I had to think for a few minutes because I’m basically an open book. There’s not much left to reveal unless we start talking about my snack habits. After a minute or two, I finally said, “HAM radio.”

Instantly, I was rewarded with the same looks people give when you say words like “cryptocurrency” or “CrossFit.” Blank. Confused. Slight concern. Not surprisingly, several people in the room had no idea what HAM radio was, which was perfect because it gave me a chance to climb onto my invisible soapbox and explain.

For those who are unfamiliar, amateur radio operators utilize radios and antennas to communicate with individuals locally, across the country, and occasionally around the world—without relying on cell towers, Wi-Fi, or satellites. Just radios, airwaves, and a little bit of nerdy wizardry. You can talk to someone down the street, or someone on the other side of the planet, assuming the atmosphere is in a good mood that day.

Some people collect stamps. Some people golf. Some people run marathons. Apparently, I sit in my house and talk to strangers through invisible waves in the sky. We all need hobbies.

What originally pulled me into HAM radio was the emergency side of it. When storms hit, and the power goes out, phones stop working, and the internet disappears, amateur radio is often still standing. Hams pass emergency traffic, help with search and rescue, and provide communication when nothing else will. It’s fun and practical. Like a Swiss Army knife… that talks.

And honestly, with the Verizon cell phone outage the other day, it kind of proved that point. We like to think our phones are indestructible… right up until we’re standing in the kitchen holding a useless glowing rectangle, whispering, “Why have you forsaken me?” That’s when old-school radio suddenly doesn’t seem so old.

I also told them about something I do pretty much daily called Parks on the Air. It’s an activity where people with portable HAM radio stations go out to qualified parks and try to “activate” the park by making contacts with “hunters” like me.

Let me be clear: they pack up radios, antennas, batteries, tables, chairs, snacks, and probably a small generator. They drive to a park, hike to a spot, and set up in the elements.

I sit in the comfort of my home, coffee in hand, climate control working beautifully, talking to them while they’re sitting in weather conditions not suitable for man, beast, or common sense. They’re battling wind, heat, cold, bugs, and curious squirrels. I’m battling whether my coffee needs more cream. It’s a dangerous hobby, but I manage.

Of course, there’s also something kind of amazing about bouncing your voice off the atmosphere and having it land in someone else’s living room hundreds or thousands of miles away. No apps. No passwords. No updates. No, “your call cannot be completed as dialed.” Just you, a radio, and a whole lot of invisible stuff you barely passed in science class.

As I was explaining all this, I realized how funny it is that in an age of FaceTime, group texts, and social media, the most surprising thing about me involves equipment that looks like it should be mounted in a WWII submarine. But honestly, that’s part of the charm. Something is refreshing about a form of communication that doesn’t require a monthly bill, a software update, or your first pet’s name.

If I sparked your interest and you want to learn more about HAM radio, I’d genuinely love to talk to you about it and try to answer any questions you may have. Fair warning: this offer may come with diagrams.

So yes… apparently I’m a closet radio nerd. And I’m okay with that.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go see if anyone in Antarctica wants to hear about the weather in my backyard.

Can You Hear Me Now?

15 Thursday Jan 2026

Posted by in Family, Life

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For many Americans today, the answer was a resounding “No!” Verizon Wireless went down, and just like that, millions of us were spiritually transported back to 1983. Society wobbled. Productivity plummeted. Somewhere, a teenager had to actually talk to someone.

With our phones suddenly reduced to very expensive paperweights, many of us were forced to resort to smoke signals, carrier pigeons, and aggressively refreshing the screen like that was going to fix anything.

I was sitting in a doctor’s waiting room when it happened, and it was better than cable. People kept picking up their phones… staring at them… turning them sideways… tapping them harder… then setting them back down. Five seconds later? Same ritual. Over and over. It looked like a support group for the technologically dependent.
Full disclosure: I was absolutely one of them.

We’ve grown so accustomed to grabbing our phones to check Facebook, watch a YouTube video, text a friend or spouse, or occasionally even make an actual phone call. When that little pocket computer doesn’t work, it feels like someone unplugged part of our brain. I half expected a nurse to walk in and say, “Sir, you seem confused… do you know what year it is?”

We’ve lost the art of voice communication. Kids will sit around the breakfast table and text their friends instead of talking to the rest of the family. You can have four people in the same room, all on their phones, silently sharing videos with people who aren’t there. These little glowing rectangles have become idols that we worship. We can’t seem to live without them — not even for a couple of hours. If the Wi-Fi hiccups, we act like we’re auditioning for a survival show.

I’m old enough to remember the dark ages — before pocket computers ruled our lives. Back when a “dead zone” meant the phone cord wouldn’t reach the couch. If you were bored in a waiting room, you didn’t scroll… you committed. You read a six-year-old magazine about kitchen remodeling. You memorized a poster about heartburn. You judged people quietly.
And somehow… we lived to tell the tale.

Granted, there was a moment today when I really wished I could call or text my wife to let her know I’d be making a few stops on the way home. Instead, I found myself longing for the return of phone booths — the kind where you could pull over, squeeze inside, dig a quarter out of the cup holder, and make an honest-to-goodness phone call.

No apps.
No passwords.
No updates.
No, “your call is very important to us.”

Just a dial tone, the smell of warm plastic, and the unsettling feeling that the last person in there may have been a superhero… or a criminal.

Maybe today’s outage was a good reminder that the world won’t end if our phones stop working. Conversations still exist. Eye contact is still legal. And boredom, while uncomfortable, won’t actually kill us — though judging by that waiting room, several people were close.

So if you need me, I’ll be over here practicing my smoke signals, teaching kids how to communicate using actual words, and checking my cup holder… just in case phone booths ever make a comeback.