Leave a Memory After the Beep

Just a few short months ago, it was unusual to hear the crackle of my parents’ old-fashioned answering machine, which went on after the fifth ring when nobody was home. My mother bought the machine when I was ten, or younger. And the recording is just as old:

“You have reached the Des Jardins. No one is here to take your call right now, but if you leave a message we will get back to you as soon as possible.”

I’ve heard it maybe 20 times over the course of 15 years—not often. It seemed like someone was always home, usually my Mom, but on the rare occasion she wasn’t, my Dad would pick up. And on the rarer occasion that they both were out, I’d hear that old machine message and hang up before the end of the recording.

I’ve been hearing the machine a lot more since Dad’s been gone. No doubt, Mom’s been wanting to get out of the house more. Just the other day I heard a new message on the old, crackly machine:

“Hi, it’s Joy. I’m not here; leave me a message.”

Funny how I never thought twice about Mom’s outgoing answering machine message, let alone changing it, after Dad died. I’ve been so used to my mother speaking in the collective, or referring to herself by her role, not her name, that I figured it would stay the same forever.

Back in college my roommate used to laugh when my mother called and left a message on our voicemail:

“Hi girls. No need to call me back. It’s just Jory’s Mom.”

“What do I call your Mom when I meet her?” my roommate joked. “Hi Jory’s Mom?”

I said to my mother, “Mom, why do you leave messages like that, like you have no name?” My mother immediately adjusted her voicemail messages after that, proving she didn’t understand my point: “Hi girls. It’s only me, no need to call me back.” 

Later, when she got a job, I memorized her company’s toll-free number and called at least once a day. She was usually at her desk and would stop what she was doing to chat. On occasion I was courteous to ask her, “Are you in the middle of something?” And even if she was she’d say, “No,” or, “I was, but no, nothing important.”

Imagine the smack in the face I’d feel later of dating someone, calling him at work, and hearing, “I’m busy, I can’t talk now.” No brief small talk, no nuthin’. I told him he had to let me down more softly than that, at least sound grateful for my call.

He said rather succinctly, “I’m not your mother.”

When I called my mother at work and she wasn’t at her desk, I had her paged. Even if there was no emergency I figured that my desire to talk made my request valid. She’d pick up, winded from having to make it back to her desk.

“Hello?”

“Hey Lady.” I’d reply.

“Anything going on?”

“I’m just feeling kind of pissed/overwhelmed/irritated/excited/insert emotion here.”

“Oh, OK, Pookie.”

And a conversation would ensue.

My mother has never had a cell phone, meaning I was out of luck if she was—God forbid—in the bathroom or at lunch and couldn’t be paged. I would usually try again in five minutes, and again five minutes after that. In worst-case scenarios I would leave a message, which was the most disconcerting. I would hear my mother, uncomfortably claiming she wasn’t available, and to please leave a message.

Just a little contextual background: When I go back to Chicago, people don’t call me Jory Des Jardins (pronounced Day Zhar Dan) that call me Jory Des Jardins (pronounced Des Jardins). I generalize it as a Midwestern thing, pronouncing French names as they appear phonetically in English. A few towns over is Des Plaines—you can only imagine how we’ve destroyed that beautiful name. The phonetic pronunciation harks back to grandparents who were raised frighteningly close to the Canadian border in Michigan and who are very proud of being Americans. My grandfather spoke French as a child, but he’s not as entranced with the language as I am. He is Joe Dessss Jardinssss. Besides, the Canadian pronunciation of Des Jardins is nothing like the romantic, Parisian version—it’s a mooshed, edgeless verbal mass, with the accentuated lump pushed to the middle, “DeZHARde.” Frankly, I wouldn’t use the Canadian pronunciation, either.

Pressured by one too many cultivated people in college, I realized the literary goldmine behind my name when pronounced in the Parisian, and several people in my family--my sister and my uncle--used that pronunciation, so I converted and have caught hell for it ever since. I tried not to say it that way around my Dad, who insisted that no one would ever want to buy a Buick from some guy with such a pretentious last name. But, I told him, I’m not selling cars, so I’m not jeopardizing my career by insisting on Frenchifying Des Jardins. I insisted, I was only pronouncing it the way our forefathers did.

Anyway, I tell this story because my mother always ended up smack dab in the middle of these arguments and had conflicting loyalties. While she used the English pronunciation of Des Jardins on the home answering machine, she, like me, switched to the schwah version of Des Jardins on her work voicemail. I hated listening to her outgoing message because I could hear the guilt in her voice for switching over. No confidence in her intonation at all. She clipped the name like a beautiful Midwestern girl clipped her gorgeous ringlets—to avoid others from thinking she was being too flashy.   

While Mom was at her last job, I sometimes got the automated voicemail message, in which a polished professional voice told me that (My mother’s hurried voice repeats her clipped first and last name), was not available, and to please leave a message. Other times, when I wasn’t transferred by the receptionist to my mother’s voicemail I got a message recorded in its entirety by my mother. You could tell she didn’t want to have to record it; she would have preferred the phone-voice lady to have done it for her. She left out her last name, and periods, entirely:

“This is Joy I’m not at my desk right now please leave me a message and I will call you right back thank you very much.”

If I bothered to leave a message, I always made it clear: “Ma, I have no big news, but call me.”

Having had my mother at my beck and call since college has made this whole recent Not-Home thing a bit disconcerting. While I’ve insisted that she get out of the house and find a job, I still expect her to be sitting next to the phone to take my calls. I’ve been Not-Home for almost 17 years; I’ve had periods of overwhelm when I didn’t connect with my mother for days. But I’ve never had this behavior reciprocated. And I’ve never heard my mother identify herself without occupational necessity and declare that she’s out. Until now.

When Dad died I wondered when it would hit me that he’s gone. I’ve almost apologized for getting on with my life and looking at people quizzically when they apologize profusely for my loss; I need to think about it for a moment before I know what they are talking about. And yet this, a new answering machine message, did what a death certificate couldn’t.

“Hi, it’s Joy. I’m not here; leave me a message.”

I hear Mom’s voice on the crackly audio and then the beep. All I can do is breathe.

Comments

[Denise]

Wow. I don't have that kind of relationship with my mom. And my parents have been divorced for more than 20 years. But wow. I can imagine the lump in my own throat if I was in your place and heard that answering machine message. Wow.

[Debra]

That turning French into English phonetics is, as far as I can tell, purely an Illinoisian thing. (is Illinoisian even a word!!) I've never understood it, and the PRIDE in being contrary...

[Joy]

Well, it goes both ways sweetie. Whenever I have a message from one of you kids on the answering machine, my heart takes a little dip...and I'm secretly sorry I wasn't in to get it. Of course, that's quickly remedied with a quick call back and...everything is right with the world. It appears that Dad was a better back-up plan than I ever realized. -xo

[Steve Sherlock]

yes, Jory, it is the little things that make life so interesting. They're there, then they're not like a double take is needed to confirm that, yes, I am where I thought I was, now what was I doing?
Keep breathing!

[Troy Worman]

I like Steve's advice. You know, he is a sage old dude. Keep breathing!

By the way, I would ask you to be my Valentine, but I already asked your mom.

[Phil Gerbyshak]

Jory, this sure is deep. Thank you for sharing your heart. It's a good one! And thanks to your mom for being the inspiration for such a heartfelt post.

[colleen]

My all time favorite answering machine message was one of my dad's "State your business." He's gone now too.

I'm visiting via One Woman's World Blog Award list.

[JT]

Hi Jory!

I found you via BlogHer. I was either in your year or one year ahead at U of I... and when I have thought of you since, I always used the French pronounciation in my head.

And now I can't remember how we actually spoke your name at school. Oops.

Lovely post.

[jenB]

maybe it depends on where in canada. i totally say it properly. in my head anyhow. :-)

[Marilyn]

Hi Jory! Our laptop died a month ago and I was without a computer all that time...ACK! Just getting caught up on all the posts I've missed. I must admit that I've wondered how you pronounced your last name, because when I read it, I pronounce it the French way...but growing up we had family friends in my hometown with your last name, but it was all one word (Desjardins) and they pronounced it the Midwestern way (even though they lived on the California coast.) :) Glad to hear your Mom's been getting out (I was by her blog right before I came here). What throws me off when I call MY mother is when she doesn't bother to change the pre-recorded message on her answering machines (it's happened several times over the years)...it always throws me off when I hear THAT GUY talking in that automated monotone.

[robert]

hi. nice blog.

hi all :)

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