My iPhone Killed a Snowman

Let me clarify. My iPhone itself didn’t kill the snowman, but my preoccupation with it caused the snowman’s demise.

Here’s what happened.

This morning I arose and stumbled toward the back door with Nutmeg and Nora, our Cairn terrier rescues, to let them out into the near-zero degree, pre-dawn air for their garden visit. While I waiting for them to do their business, I checked my phone, delighted to see I had gained three new Twitter followers overnight. I fed the dogs, and before I put the coffee on, I checked to see who the new followers were.

Then, I hadn’t checked Facebook since dinnertime yesterday, so there was a lot to catch up on my newsfeed.

There was the story of the young man who had been arrested and saved the life of the officer booking him. Did he really save that guy’s life or just call for help to save himself? I had to read the article to find out.

Then, there were the pictures of a European winter storm, an article about men who can sing, and one about measles breaking out Disney.

I don’t know why this particular morning, all of those stories were keeping me from starting the coffee, and how I seemed to lose time, but I stood against the counter reading and, at the same time, half-hearing what sounded like one of the dogs trying to climb a piece of furniture. They’ve done that before when I hid something of interest on top of the china cabinet, but I knew there was nothing hidden, at the time, so I kept reading.

When I finally extracted my eyeballs from my newsfeed, I stepped into the dining room to see what the commotion was. On the floor, I saw the loop of a gold metallic cord.

Nutmeg and Nora seemed rather innocent, but I knew they weren’t. I started searching and hoping that the damage wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe the cord had just been torn off, and the rest was intact, but when I looked behind the sofa in the living room, I found the carnage of a felt snowman Christmas ornament.

The ornament I had finished last night and hung from a knob on the china-cabinet door lay, disemboweled, in the dim area between the sofa and the wall. At least fifteen hours of work had gone into sewing little sequins on the felt, joining the pieces together, stuffing the little guy, and sewing him up. There was the felt handle of the felt shovel that had proved a challenge to fill, and the embroidered, smiling face, the stuffing, and the sequins, all strewn about.

A ten-minute detour from my morning routine, and my inability to pull myself away from news that had absolutely nothing to do with my life, had undone hours and hours of work. I had planned to take this winter lull to finish the four snowmen ornaments leftover from the holidays, and give one to each of our kids next Christmas, leaving this one for ourselves here at home. I think he is mortally wounded, so there will be only three.

Was I mad at the dog (probably Nutmeg)? Absolutely not. There was no difference to her between the precious snowman ornament and the stocking full of stuffed toys she received on Christmas day. She was probably perplexed, though, as to why it wasn’t squeaking as she tore it apart.

Yes, it’s just a small object. Yes, it represents hours of work. But they were hours occupied doing something worthwhile, half-paying attention to the TV in the background, and were well spent. Those quality experiences can’t be taken away, but there’s nothing to show for them now.

This morning’s snowman “tragedy” represents more to me, though.

What are we all missing when we have our eyes glued to our tiny screens? I’m glad it was just a felt snowman that was the victim today, and not something worse.

I’ve seen parents waiting at school bus stops with phone in hand while their kids wander around them like satellites. I’ve seen photos of parents glued to their screens while their little ones climb on playground equipment. And there’s the photo of the dad having his toenails painted by his daughter. Touching, except that he’s playing a video game at the same time.

From today on, I resolve to be more aware of my surroundings, and, even though my electronics have value, I will be more mindful of their place in my life—secondary to what’s really happening around me. How about you?

Ann Silverthorn is a blogger who also writes about a wide variety of topics in numerous genres, including non-fiction, fiction, poetry, travel, and grant writing.

Twitter: @annsilverthorn

Instagram: ann_silverthorn