Richard Russo: On Memory
In this exclusive essay and an excerpt from a new book, the Pulitzer Prize-winning author writes about life, death, and hospice.
Woodcut by Siri Beckman
Okay, I’m not proud of it, but I have Caller ID. It protects me from people I don’t want to talk to, or don’t want to talk to right then. Some callers, hoping to thwart my machine, have cloaking devices, but these register as unknown caller, a dead giveaway. Caller ID’s only flaw is that it doesn’t tell me what the caller wants, only if it’s friend or likely foe. About a year ago I got a call from Lee Duff, an old friend and racquetball partner. His identity was dutifully reported by my machine, so I picked up, thinking he meant to invite me to Waterville for a match, whereas, in actuality, he’d called to ask a favor. With any luck, the next generation of Caller ID will provide more information. It will tell me: “The caller is your old friend Lee, but he’s not calling about racquetball. He wants to know if you’ll donate your time, energy, and name recognition to benefit a local hospice organization. You might want to pretend you aren’t home.” Now that would be a useful machine.
[For the rest of this exclusive excerpt, see the May 2008 issue of Down East.]
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