“Nothing to write home about” had been a joke in his father’s time, when all soldiers wanted was to write home or receive mail from loved ones. It had mutated since then, into a dismissal of events that the needy would have cherish. No one wrote home enough these days. No one called their mothers enough, or had heart-to-hearts with Dad, or took five minutes to simply make sure everyone was okay and lunch went well. It was a dismissed world.
The cell phone didn’t change things the way he wanted it to. Somehow the ease of dialing, or having a number auto-dialed, and having a brief conversation amounted to an effort that left people rationalizing to keep their minutes. The postal service was on the verge of demise, and e-mail was outmoded. Nothing was simple enough for the stupid mind to write home and keep those micro-contacts firing in the shape of a real life.