I haven’t talked about Customer Service in a while — and don’t plan to say much today — except: Have you noticed how people avoid calling Customer Service until all else has failed? Do you think that was the plan?

Folks don’t really want to deal with a C.S. representative who, A. seldom has the knowledge or authority to solve your problem and, B. lives in another country where English is not even the second language. Many people would rather have an instruction book, figure it out themselves with trial and error, or look on You tube.

This is a bit of a problem because most merchandise bought nowadays comes with no instruction book.  No help at all except maybe a web address on the packing slip.

And it seems to me that the larger and more expensive the item is, the fewer instructions you receive on how to make it work.

A copy machine for your office, a new computer, the smartest phone in the world? No instruction book. You must log into howdoesthisthingwork.com.  Or call customer service.

All this is true. Yet my $10 curling iron came with a little pamphlet telling how to wind my hair around the wand. Actually that was rather helpful.

My two-cup coffee maker from Wal*mart came with instructions on how to make coffee. Pour water in here, place coffee in basket there. And, then, “If you want more coffee, repeat steps 1 – 4.”

The printing on the bottle of hand soap I bought at Dollar Tree: 1. Wet hands 2. Put small amount of soap in palm. 3.  Lather thoroughly and rinse.

There you go. Instructions on how to wash my hands. But if I want the copy machine to collate and staple, I’m on my own.

To quote the King of Siam, “It’s a puzzlement!”

In my formative years, summer officially lasted from Memorial Day to Labor Day. So I began the season on May 30 by fasting and visiting my doctor’s office so a nurse could draw blood.

In June, I took a trip to Branson, July was spent in rehearsals, 3 previews and 7 performances of “The Secret Garden” at Center on the Square theater in Searcy. Summer ended Labor Day weekend at the annual White County Creative Writers Conference.

The trip to Branson was to meet up with some of my kids, grandkids, and great-grands who were spending time there. I know this is an obvious statement, but great-grandchildren are such a joy. In them I see hope for the future because they are so brilliant.

My three treasures are Noah, 4 years old, Caleb, 2, and Quade, 14 months. Since our rooms were on the second floor, Noah and Caleb took turns (sort of) pushing the “door open” button in the elevator until we could all load on . . . which sometimes took a minute or two. They did pretty well sharing this responsibility, though sometimes Noah felt compelled to “help” his little brother, even when Caleb clearly did not want any assistance.

Three days sped by quickly and too soon it was time to leave. The older boys and their parents left first, having the longest trip home. We waved goodbye from the parking lot and rang for the elevator. Back to our rooms to finish packing.

We entered the lift, little Quade’s mother holding him on her arm. Suddenly his eyes lit up. Finally, it was his turn to push the button! Except that … the only button he could reach was the one with the exclamation point on it.

Well, he tried, but he wasn’t able to push it in far enough to make a connection. But the dance performed by all the adults present must have been a sight to behold.

I wonder if there is a security camera in that elevator.

One day last week, a can of Spam appeared on my front steps.

What on earth?

Was it just another of the items occasionally found in my yard — soda cans, candy wrappers, vodka bottles? I do, after all, live on a corner lot, seen by many as an approved depository for anything they no longer want in their car.

I really don’t know, but made curious by the unusual gift, I decided to find out more about this product, which was developed by the Hormel company in 1937, but became more widely used during WWII when fresh meat was rationed.

This mystery mix was similar to the ‘pork luncheon meat’ included in K-Rations for paratroopers. Comedians had a field day joking about how well we were feeding our military.

Spam (euphemistically short for ‘spiced ham’) contains only six ingredients: pork with ham, salt, water, potato starch, sugar, and sodium nitrite (a preservative not to be confused with sodium nitrAte, which is something else entirely). The listing ‘pork with ham’ adheres to an FDA ruling that labels must list the most first. Thus, other parts of the pig with a little bit of ham added is the base ingredient of Spam.

During my valuable research I came across SPAM.com where I found several recipes: Spam fries, Spamburger, Fried Nice, Cheesy Mac with Spam chunks, and Musubi.  Musubi is a Hawaiian dish made of rice and Spam molded in a press and wrapped in nori (which is seaweed).  Talk about a pig in a blanket . . .

Now, I’m still not too sure what to do with the bounty that came to me through someone’s goodness, carelessness, or amusement.

Perhaps give it a place of honor to remember my childhood in the Forties, when fried Spam might be part of the daily fare, with okra and tomatoes from the Victory Garden.

Sometimes it falls on us to perform a difficult task, when the task needs to be … well … performed.

Recently, I played the rather stern housekeeper, Mrs. Medlock, in Center on the Square’s production of The Secret Garden. It’s a delightful play with moving sets and lots of scene changes, as the action takes place in the library, bedroom, or garden of a large English mansion.

In one scene, Dr. Cravens introduces the child, Mary, to the head mistress of a boarding school he wants to ship her off to. I am there with a plate of cookies for tea. Mary says she doesn’t want to go to school and proceeds to throw a tantrum … and a cookie. The headmistress, exuding ‘I know how to handle these things’, makes Mary retrieve the English ‘biscuit.’

In dress rehearsals we quickly learned that the cookie seemed to have a mind of its own, despite Mary’s talent at spiking it in the same place every time. Sometimes it would break in two where it landed, as it should, other times it would skitter across the stage, and stop in a spot not convenient for wrestling. The first time that happened, the director said, ‘Be sure to get that cookie off the floor or it will be a terrible distraction to the audience.’

Back stage, we talked about it. Dr. Cravens would not pick up a cookie. He would call a servant to do it.

Then in a totally unscripted moment, it happened. One night Mary slammed the cookie and it slid stage left, behind Dr. Cravens. The headmistress did nothing. Dr. Cravens and I looked at each other and it was decided. Mrs. Medlock would pick up the cookie.

Let me tell you something about myself. I’m a senior citizen and I don’t bend too well. When I drop something I stop to consider how badly do I really want it before I expend the energy to retrieve it.

Now, I can bend over. But it’s not pretty. It usually involves drawing a lot of attention to my prominent backside. I know it is more graceful to semi-squat but sometimes when I do that I keep going and end up on my hands and knees. If I have something to hold on to, I might balance by raising one leg, something like a dog at a fire hydrant, but, alas that was not possible here.

I thought through all these options and as Mary finished her tantrum with a flair, I crossed upstage. I was aware that if this didn’t work out the cookie would no longer be the distraction. As gracefully as possible, I did the half-squat and picked up the two pieces of the cookie. All went well, thankyoulord.

There often comes a time in life when something needs to be done. It may not be our job, but we are the obvious choice. It may not be convenient, we may even be afraid. If it doesn’t work out right, we may be greatly embarrassed.

Never mind all that. Sometimes it falls to us to step up or, in this case, bend over.

When it’s up to you, just do it.

Pick up the cookie.

Many things in life don’t work the way they should. “Easy Open” packaging comes to mind. But was there ever a bigger national flop than the Do Not Call Registry?

The idea was proposed in June 2003 with every land-line owner’s approval. The plan was to give us a choice about whether we would receive telemarketing calls or not. If you disliked  being interrupted at dinner or awakened on your day off, you should put your name on that list. If you enjoyed that sort of thing, do nothing.

Though everyone, at least everyone I know, approved, it didn’t go into effect until February 2004. It took 8 months for the courts to decide this law did not infringe on the telemarketers’ freedom of speech.

Interesting. If I call you twice a day for a week it would be harassment or stalking. But get Big Business involved and things change.

Once the registry was in place, citizens rushed to sign up. Finally, peace and quiet. Then we found there are exceptions. Non-profit agencies can still call asking for donations. Surveys, with their thinly-veiled sales pitches, are allowed. Any business you have an account with, or have sent an inquiry to, can make a “follow-up” call (or 10). Of course bill collectors are exempt. Add to that the people who simple ignore the law.

Now, here’s my theory about what happened. Someone hacked into the Do Not Call Registry and sold all those numbers to RoboCalls International!

And the Federal Trade Commission, Federal Communication Commission, the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, Secret Service, nor any of the large telephone companies can do anything about it. Ya think?!

All politicians: LISTEN TO THE PEOPLE. Make America great again. Give us back our privacy. Our life, liberty, and  pursuit of happiness.

The words I most often hear that are just not true are, “You can’t miss it.”

Oh, I can miss it! I can miss a clearly marked exit, I can miss the painted guidelines for a parking space, I can miss a step and fall up the stairs. I can miss the eye of a needle, I can miss a lethargic fly just waiting to be slain. I can miss the answer button on my cell phone. And sometimes, but not often, I can miss the punch line.

One day last week at the education cooperative where I work, we experienced a rather major crisis. Our internet server went down. Now when that happens I know exactly what to do: Call the Technologist.

He happened to be out that day but wonderful techie that he is, he is usually able to help even when not physically present. Brook called him and was told to reboot. She said to me, “He said to find the black box with the word ‘Cisco’ on it. He says you can’t miss it.” Oh, great.

Three of us entered the server room, which has about as many wires and and blinking lights as the inner workings of a nuclear sub. I looked around for a box about the size of a crate of toilet paper with six-inch letters proclaiming CISCO…or maybe even SISCO. There was nothing like that anywhere in sight.

We call Jonathan back to tell him the server box must be missing, it is not in the server room. We’re passing around my cell phone (which I can’t believe is working in there with all those electronics), when Sandy says, “Here it is!”  And there, among a bevy of machinery, on a small black device the size of a DVD player written in 2 point font, is the word: CISCO.

Are you kidding me? Who says I couldn’t miss that?

Well, the server was turned off and then on again. The Internet returned. Brook could continue the Google workshop and the GT Coordinators could resume their ZOOM.

Because we finally found something we “couldn’t miss.”