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Dear reader, in self defense, I must explore the option of writing in the third person:

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Tilda thought she might like to bring her little black Samsung smartphone on her two hour hike in the woods.
“I could break a leg or fall or feel faint up there on Chuckanut Mountain and how would I call for help and who knows where I am? Nobody.”
But her black yoga pants didn’t have a pocket nor did her shirt.
“I didn’t want to bring it anyway” she reversed, “Nothing worse than answering an automated sales pitch for life insurance when you are in the middle of paradise nose to nose with a Red-throated Warbler.”
“But,” she realized “I might want to take a photo of the Red-throated warbler!”

Pants are changed. Now she has pockets…

“Oh, but I am going painting with my group at the gallery right after and will need money for a coffee and anyway I shouldn’t probably be driving without my license with me.”
She grabs her lichen green fake leather purse and zips the phone inside it. A resolution. A simple and satisfying pleasure.

It is getting warmer by the minute. This requires a shirt change and different jacket choice.
“I have to have layers so I can take them off and tie the sleeves around my waist,” she explains to the brown dog who is becoming impatient. The dog yawns and lays down by the door.

“Ah, but I will have to take the phone out of my purse and put it in the jacket pocket if I want to carry it and it could fall out when I take my jacket off, or if it doesn’t fall out, it could bang against my leg like a saddle stirrup on a horse and that would be so annoying…”

“Oh, and maybe I shouldn’t bring my purse after all because so many cars get broken into at that trailhead. They even posted a sign saying not to leave valuables in your car,” she remembers.
The phone comes out of the purse and goes into the rear pocket of her comfortable denim pants. She gives it a pat.

The dog is dancing with excitement now that Tilda is finally donning her hiking shoes. The dog knows the sequence and wonders why Tilda is having so much trouble with it this morning.
The morning is warm and gorgeous. It is spring. The ferns have uncurled their soft fingers and are all now pointing to the clear sky. The maple leaves have relaxed their fists and spread palms wide open, dappling the trail. It is finally warm.
Tilda makes the little summit with the view of Mt Baker and stands on a sandstone outcropping dizzily looking at the heavy winter snow that still covered the blue mountain off in the distance.
Rested, she looks for a private area with enough cover that she can go pee without being seen, should other hikers appear.
A deer trail with a big moss covered boulder at the end is ideal. Even has thimbleberry bush leaves, “a perfect soft, clean, organic wipe,” she tells herself
Tilda stays hydrated for her walks, therefore really has some urgency and squats down against the elephant sized boulder with relief.
She stands when the strong stream has stopped and turns to toe a little forest duff over the spot but stops.
“Shit.”
The phone. Face up on the leaf littered ground. Well soaked, shiny black rectangle of trouble, blinking up at her.

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2 thoughts on “ABOUT THE PHONE

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