Clinton, South Carolina, Thursday, July 18, 2019, 11:18 a.m.

This is the first blog in a while. I’ve been busy. My home wifi went out, and I couldn’t schedule a technician until Tuesday. While I was spending time at the local library and McDonald’s – two locations conveniently nearby – someone hacked my Facebook account, and dozens of “friends,” Facebook variety, sent me messages that they had received new “friend requests” from me.

My CPAP (“continuous positive airway pressure”) machine died. I’ve been using one to sleep for 15 years or so now, and it’s been so effective that I am almost unable to sleep at all without one.

On Monday, I was preparing to drive over to Union to get a CPAP replacement when I decided to call ahead, which was fortunate because there was no place in Union to call. That company has merged with another, and the nearest office is now Greenwood, not Union. Supposedly my records were in Greenwood, too, but, no. Since my CPAP with the broken motor had the name of the old company, the friendly fellow there provided me with a loaner. They only difference is that, when I put on the mask, I don’t have to turn the machine on. It starts up as soon as I inhale.

A CPAP machine is wonderful. It is also addictive. I can barely function without it.

The most aggravating part of getting the wifi – and land line – repaired was the ordeal of having to spend an hour or two of talking to someone whose dialect I could barely decipher and having him tell me to try things I’d already tried half a dozen times. One cannot just make an appointment. One has to have the fellow on the phone decide an appointment is needed.

“I think we will have to schedule a visit by one of our technicians.”

“I expected as much, Sherlock,” replied I.

Sunday night at McDonald’s on the interstate. Monday afternoon at the library, where I was pleased to see that four of my novels and a collection of short stories was on the shelves. Tuesday morning photos of high school football teams playing pitch-and-catch. McDonald’s to crop and dicker with those photos and write a text to accompany them. On the way home, the technician calls, and we arrive at the house at the same time. His equipment tells him my line is out 405 feet away. While he goes 405 feet away, I fold clothes that had been left in the dryer. He tells me that the last time a technician visited, a year or so back, he ran a new line down the edge of the road to my house and sent in an order that it needed to be buried. The memorial service was never conducted. The line had been going in and out – usually the wifi would fail, I would see that the phone had no dial tone, and it would come back in five minutes or so. It went out on Saturday morning, quite likely because the man cutting my grass and trimming the grounds ran over it with something that had blades. It was neither his fault or mine because the line had never been buried and neither I nor the man on the mower had any way of knowing this.

I hurriedly piece together the daily arrests report for GoLaurens/GoClinton and drive to Laurens for a City Council meeting. Then I pick the photos, write the story and edit half a dozen releases that have arrived in my email while I was otherwise occupied.

Wednesday wasn’t too bad. I got caught up. I played a little guitar. Read my Kindle a while. The Red Sox won.

I’ve spent a lot of time on hold this week. When I called my doctor’s office and tried to explain that the relationship with my CPAP provider is, uh, complicated, I found out he could work me in on August 1. Super.

All is now well, or at least manageable. I can both work at home and sleep here again.

If technology makes my life any more convenient, I won’t have any time at all.

 

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My eighth novel is called Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Lightning in a Bottle is now available in an audio version, narrated by Jay Harper.