The person from the kitchen at the cider house came to the rectangular window that allowed both front of house and back of house personnel to communicate, and gently touched the yellow bell that communicated to the servers that a customer’s order was ready to be delivered. I was sitting at the bar directly in front of that window, and when the server reached for the bowl, I commented on the soft touch of the alerting “ding.” The server told me that she appreciated that, as she did not like the aggressive “ding! ding! ding!” that some cooks applied to the signal bell.
That alert bell is relatively new at the cider house. I first encountered it when the cidery was changing the location of their tasting room. As they wound down operation at the original location, they suspended table service and were only open for takeout. And when I appeared one day for a takeout of my favorite ciders, I saw no one in attendance at the counter. There was a silent sentinel: a yellow, smiley-face, hand operated alarm bell. I got my order, which was brown paper bagged, and proceeded across the street from the building, where the bag burst, and a four-pack of cider struck the ground and started to cry. I came back to the cidery, and found myself, like Donkey in Shrek, all alone. I am a patient and undemanding person, so I stood at the counter, waiting for someone to appear from the innards. My cider was crying down my leg and when no one came to the front of the house, I gently touched the smiley face on its head. It delivered a soft tone, and I stood back to await a respondent. No one showed for a time, so I tapped the happy face again; when there was no response to the second “ding,” I gave Mr. Happy a brisk “shave and a haircut” hammering, which roused the head cider-maker, who assured me that someone from the inner workings would help me. And that happened.
I have never been one who has screamed, bawled, or howled for attention. I never hammered on doors or rapped on windowpanes. I do not demand the attention of wait staff or bartenders; I let my presence speak to my need for their services. When I was a salesman for a printing company, I would wait at the window for the receptionist to acknowledge me. I made no demands for attention (which may have contributed to my death as a salesman). I do not lean onto the car’s horn to express my anger; I “honk” to alert others to danger. When I had children, I did not scream at them. I once raised my voice with my two youngest and they were so shocked to hear it that they looked at each other and burst into laughter. A man from England expressed a hope to me, and finished his story by saying, “touch wood.” I learned that the phrase “knock on wood” was derived from “touch wood,” which seems to be a gentler way of hoping for good fortune.
We live in a raucous world, one that has millions of cries demanding our attention. We learn to tune out calls that we deem unimportant. My roommate/daughter told me that the Uber driver who recently came to pick her up had “the most passive honk” of the horn to signal arrival. I told Lauren that I liked that passive honk. She laughed at me, unaware that I was noodling on a column about the nature of gentle dings.
cjon3acd@att.net