Our neighborhood is afflicted with an epidemic of inoperative doorbells. Friends and family are forced to huddle in the comfort of their drivers’ seats, parked in front of our neighbors’ homes, their car horns their only means of communication.
An imperfect means, too, because car horns are meant to be heard through windshields, at most, rather than brick, plaster, lath, and Dolby digital. The sound is not as penetrating as, say, a mobile phone, or a knock on the front door. And so well-meaning well-wishers are isolated, unheard in their Escalades, left to honk their horns repeatedly in a final, desperate attempt to get the attention of their loved ones.
I can’t imagine the pain, the suffering, because our doorbell works. As do, I might add, the feet, legs, and hands of our family and friends. I’ve expressed my thankfulness for this blessing many times, apparently quite often within Ian’s range of hearing.
Yesterday a particularly heart-wrenching episode occurred nearer our home, and Ian couldn’t restrain his sympathy.
‘Ring the doorbell!’