IDLE ALGORITHMS

     You receive via social media a message that appears to be a friend request, perhaps from a  name you recognize. What an affirmative thought, someone wants you as a friend. An ideal concept, surrounding ourselves with a circle of friends.

    A quick word of caution: stop to ask yourself: is this a genuine request from someone who knows you, or perhaps someone who has admired something you wrote in one of your posts and would like to know you better? On the other hand, is this from an algorithm that has just discovered that the two of you have in common a passion for kumquats and you both have ordered online size ten socks? Never mind that you ordered the socks as a present for your brother; the algorithm don't know what it doesn't know.

    So you ponder. Will I hurt someone's sensibilities if I reject the request?

    Reminds me of my brief career as a telephone operator. On rare occasions I would be removed from the local call board and assigned to one of the long-distance boards -- you know, the tall instrument with a dozen cords, each with a plug on the unattached end. Back in those long-ago days when residential telephones were fixed to a wall.

    In the early evening hours, supervision would be light and the lack of activity boring. I had a way to amuse myself that was never discovered and for which I was never fired. I could cause the telephone to ring in two houses at the same time. At each house someone would take the phone from the wall, thinking that the other party had called. As operators we were prohibited from monitoring the conversations, unless there was some reason to assure that the system was functioning properly, but listen in I did.

    Often the dialogues were quite entertaining. "You called?" "No, you called." The most laugh-provoking were the calls that involved friends or people who recognized the other's voice. All the better if they were neighbors.

    "My phone rang, so I answered. What are you calling me about?"

    "Do you have nothing more to do than ring the phone of someone you don't want to talk to?"

    "You're right, I don't want to talk to you. We were having supper and we most certainly didn't want to be interrupted to leave the table and go answer the phone."

    Slam.

    It's odd, how returning the phone to the hook or cradle sounds different from a slam. You can just hear the difference.

    One night I connected two of my dad's club friends who recognized each other's voice. One was immediately accusative. "If you're calling me to ask me to vote for you as club president, you're wasting your time."

    "You're the one who called me, and if you think this is a way to solicit member's support, I hope you never run for state governor."

    "I don't need your vote, vulgar, vulgar, vulgarity, but I'd give you mine . . .  for dog catcher."

    Slam.

    Slam.

    My younger sister and Billy Long broke up. I connected those two lines and was excited when both my sister and Billy Long answered the phones.

    "Billy?" my sister asked.

    "Whaddya want" Billy snarled.

    "I was hoping you would call."

    "I didn't call. You called me."

    "You rang my phone," my sister insisted.

    "Why would I want to talk to you?"

    They continued to argue, but neither one could end the conversation until Billy's mother needed to use the phone. "I'll see you at school tomorrow," Billy concluded.

    One of the conversations that always gave me the giggles when I thought about it was two of my mother's backyard neighbors, Mrs. Walker and Mrs. Thanton. They both said hello at the same time and recognized each other's voice.

    After several long moments of silence, Mrs. Walker said, "You have me on the line, what did you want to talk about?"

    "My phone rang. I picked it up," replied Mrs. Thanton.

    "Likewise here. My phone rang. Why are you calling me?"

    "I did not call you."

    Then why did my phone ring?"

    "I repeat. I did not call you. And since you have nothing to say I'm going to end this ridiculous conversation."

    "Now that I have you on the line, I do have something to say," Mrs. Walker spat out. "I'd be grateful to you if you would keep your cat out of my garden."

    "My cat does not--"

    "Your cat certainly does. Comes to do its business in my garden. Digs up my vegetables, sometimes the marigolds, wherever it goes it scratches everything up. And I try to recover the damage, but sometimes the plants are so badly destroyed they can't be saved. You ought to keep that damned cat at home, don't let it wander around tearing up the neighborhood."

    "I don't know what cat you are talking about, but it isn't my cat. You should pay closer attention before you start making accusations. There are other cats in this neighborhood, you know."

    Slam.

    "You think I can't trust my own eyes?"

    Slam.

    What made the conversation even funnier was the fact that apparently neither neighbor knew that often the offending cat was sleeping in front of my mother's gas-fired fireplace or eating from a special dish that my mother kept near the back door.

    Hilarious as the conversations were, I always succeeded in keeping my laughter under control. Had I been discovered I would have been out the door.

    Long gone are telephone operators wielding long cords that link one caller with another. Connections are now made with mobile phones, transistors, integrated circuits, satellites, and even flux capacitors.

    How nice to receive a friend request, but the recipient should be suspicious. Will the invitation to connect be the start of a meaningful relationship with a real, living, breathing individual, or is it an illusion? Does that person really want to be your friend, or has the suggestion come from an idle algorithm with too much time on its hands?

Idle Algorithms was published in The Write Bridge: Ideals and Illusions  Summer 2025

PRESS ONE

 I want my friends to know that I have at last, reluctantly, belatedly, updated my communications systems in order to experience a more efficient conversation. When you ring my telephone, you will hear the following:

This call may be monitored or recorded for quality assurance and training purposes.

(1) If you are calling to ask if I am still alive and breathing, press one.

(2) If you are calling to ask about my cat, Wampuscat, press two. Wampuscat is a stuffed animal which I keep by my chair, but when you press two I will tell you about Wampuscat's latest antics.. I bought Wampuscat because my friends all were feeling sorry for me because I had neither dog, nor cat, nor goldfish, nor caged canary. Truth is, I am not responsible enough to be trusted with a live animal.

(3) If you are calling for an explanation of how to knit a chameleon scarf, press three. You need two separate colors of yarn. One color dominates one side, the other color dominates the other side. I discovered the pattern quite accidentally. It has confused advanced knitters, but I will try to get you started off correctly.

(4) If you are calling to share your description of the aurora borealis in the sky last night, press four. Although you need to understand that with my house facing southwest and the trees along the north of the property I do not have a clear vision to the north.

I hope this new telephone system facilitates our communications.

One more thing: It is being speculated that by 2026 the E.U. will legalize everyone's "right to talk to a human."

A SENATOR IS MISSING

     At long last.

    Finally.

    After several decades.

    About 1989, or 1990, I heard Sara Paretsky speak at a library in Chicago. She had just finished the year of being the first president of the nearly formed Sisters in Crime. SinC was formed when several female writers of mysteries realized why their books were never bigger sellers. Book reviews in newspapers and magazines were predominantly written by men who chose to review mysteries written by men! The first goal of SinC was monitoring book reviews.

    And the percentages slowly began to change. Reviews, and sales, of mysteries written by women gradually came closer to those written by men.

    I joined SinC. For many years as a member at large because I did not live near a chapter. Learned a lot about writing and publishing. But never wrote that mystery. On the SinC website I was listed as "published -- other".

    But now I've done it. Have written a mystery. About two reporters, Chuck Addington and Marlys Tucker, who try to solve the cold case of a missing state senator with information from an old newspaper.    

    I'm 98% finished. 

    It's hard to write a book. It's even harder to find a publisher. I'll let you know.

MIGRATING WATER FOWL

     When my husband said we could build our own house, he truly meant it.

    A few days later he informed me he had found a lot on which we could build a house, would I please go look at it.

    Which I did.

    We bought it. Two acres, with a beautiful little creek running through. It's called Little Cedar Creek (although there appears to be more then one Little Cedar Creek). The western part of the lot is level with Grant Street, but after a ledge the ground to the east drops quickly to a lower level. Which, after a heavy rain, formed a lake that covered both our lot and the three-acre lot to the north. Problem was a totally inadequate culvert under a bridge to the north, which had the effect of creating a dam.

    The lake sometimes lasted for days, became a stopping place for a variety of colorful migrating water fowl. There's a longer story here, but I'll fast forward to the latest chapter. The City of Olathe wanted to convert what was left of the creek to a stormwater drainage channel. Ploughed out the riverbed. Worked very well -- for the first wet season. But the city never came back, sapling trees and bushes grew up in the water course. A LOT of sapling trees and bushes, which had the effect of creating a dam. (Am I repeating myself here?)

    I'm looking for a variety of colorful migrating water fowl.

I WISH I'D THOUGHT OF THAT SOONER

     Isn't it frustrating, when you don't think of what you should have said, or done, until years later?

    About four years ago I was surprised to get a graduation notice from a shirttail relative I had never spoken to. Nonetheless, I got a graduation congratulations card and mailed off a hefty check. Expected to receive a thank-you. Expected in vain.

    The check cleared my bank account.

    I wish now, belatedly, that I had added a note to the congratulations specifically asking what the graduate intended to do, what kind of career was envisioned, what were the future plans. I should have been quite precise, asked the graduate to WRITE ME A NOTE, giving me answers to my questions.

    I wish I'd thought of that sooner.

    

WHOSE INEFFICIENCY?

     There will never be enough algorithms to encompass all of human behavior.

    My doctor, my PA, wants to see me again six months after my latest lab report. She is carefully monitoring the level of prescription for one of my maladies. Her comment was, "We have gone from too much to not enough".

    So, I made the appointment for six months later.

    Constantly, I now receive an email, sent to multiple recipients, saying that a cancellation makes an earlier appointment available, if I act fast. I don't WANT an earlier appointment. Nonetheless, some algorithm keeps sending out these emails automatically.

    I guess there is no need to measure an algorithm's inefficiency, but it certainly increases mine. I assume there might be a way, if I took the time, to figure out how to cease this flow of emails, at a definite increase of MY inefficiency. I keep deleting these emails, but apparently the algorithm isn't smart enough to figure out there must be a reason I keep declining these offers.

SEVENTY YEARS LATER

     My mother's memoir, written seventy years ago, is finally making it into print. My sister and I have had the manuscript all these years, and are finally having copies made by a print-on-demand print company. Our goal is to have a copy printed for every grandchild, but the project has taken a r_e_a_l_l_y long time.

    My mother wrote of the post-empty-nest period in their lives when they tried to establish a new mode of life, running a bait business in my father's native state of Arkansas. They had chosen the Lake Norfolk area. By way of a little explanation my sister wrote a prologue of the history of the lake. And for an epilogue I wrote of the history of the book, how my mother had chosen the name, Hot the Coffee, Mama, because that had been a cry she frequently heard when my father thought visitors were drawing near. I had also written of how the book would be printed by the espresso book machine at a nearby library. Because of our delays the espresso book machine was no longer available and that section had to be edited.

    My sister's daughter, my niece, prepared the flashdrive, and we recently received three proof copies. She did a great job -- there were very few corrections. We have now ordered a dozen more copies, for the grandchildren and perhaps a few interested parties. Our pleasure is laden with emotion, and deep regret that the manuscript remained unpublished; the bait business did not bring in an adequate income.

    Looking for errors, I read my proof copy word by word. And I was struck by what a defining snapshot Hot the Coffee, Mama is of that period in north central Arkansas when the native dwellers, the Ozark hillbillies, were unknowingly trying to preserve their sometimes contradictory lifestyle beliefs against the invasive ingress of moneyed resort developers.