Digital scraps

This morning I left a voice mail for my friend Patty. We were planning to spend the afternoon precisely as we had the day before: lolling on the beach under a white-hot July sun, close enough to Lake Superior to keep ourselves comfortably wet and cool.
When she called back she was proud to report that she'd taken a new step forward in the ever-expanding world of technology: she'd learned to retrieve her cell phone voice mails!
"I deleted a bunch of them, but I kept the one you left me a couple of weeks ago when I didn't show up for breakfast. It was so sweet!"
"Well, that's nice. Thank you," I replied, wondering what I could possibly have said in that brief interlude between "At the tone, please record your message" and the point where time's up and you're disconnected in mid-sentence. Leaving messages is not my strong suit. I feel as if I'm standing alone in the spotlight and The Clock is ticking. Be informative! Be clever! Be brief! It's a lot of pressure for someone with too much emotional investment in being a wit.
I wonder if the digital age means the decline and eventual extinction of the treasure box. You know, that special drawer or container where you stash notes and cards from friends and loved ones. Not the Hallmark cards; the sticky notes and scribbled scraps you find on your kitchen table, nightstand, or desk at work, little messages that make you smile and make you want to save them for some later date when you'll be in need of a little dose of sweetness or smart-alecky humor.
My own digital treasure box is filling rapidly. I save texts from my friends and my kids until my phone informs me that the virtual filing cabinet is full. Something has to go. When this happens I scroll through my favorite messages with the solemn gravity of a Supreme Court judge.
"Moose ... moose," sent by my daughter Jess on Feb. 18. A hilarious message with a history if you're a Pascoe. Keep or delete? Let's see what else there is before we announce a ruling.
"Whts gud lilmama Mr. LeBlue." A cryptic message from an unknown sender that jolted me awake at 4:06 a.m May 24. An interesting bit of anonymous cyber-debris. Kind of like finding someone else's grocery list in your shopping cart.
"I'm a balloon guy. You know what I say? I say "gimme a balloon!" Sent by my son, Daniel, way back in August. Conveys no practical information but is one of our favorite George Carlin quotes.
"I am safe, mama! God is with me ... he's quite the backseat driver!" A message of reassurance sent last summer by my daughter Melissa, the newly-minted licensed driver.
Yes, this is what it's come to: ephemeral digital scribbles held in pocket-sized devices, available for rereading at the touch of a button.
It's kind of sad. Texts lack the intimacy of the handwritten note. You can't appreciate the particular slant of the author's handwriting, the wrinkled paper that softens a tiny bit more each time you unfold it. You don't have that happy miser feeling of lifting a lid or opening a drawer and seeing those little scraps of love and laughter, all meant for your eyes alone.
But when I need a little lift in my day all I need do is flip open my phone. There they are, arranged by time and date. Digital evidence that people want to chat with me, share with me, make me smile, let me know I'm loved.
The verdict is in: Save them all. They're only taking up 86 percent of available space. When the inbox reaches 96 percent full gud lilmama will have to go.