go.Jimmy.go

Ever wake up and wish you could press pause on the day? Not because you’re sick or that you don’t want to work. Just because, every once in a while, you miss the comfort of simpler times.

I had one of those mornings recently.

These days, if I’m under the weather, I can often work from home. Technology has changed almost everything about the way we live and work. But there’s one thing it hasn’t changed – Every now and then I still find myself wishing I could have just one more childhood sick day.

Growing up, those days almost always meant spending them with my grandmother—Nan.

The kitchen would fill with the smell of homemade chicken noodle soup, which she firmly believed could cure just about anything. If my “illness” happened to include a cough (and somehow it almost always did), I’d happily accept a spoonful of grape-flavored St. Joseph cough syrup and pop a tablet (or ten) of the orange baby aspirin. Looking back, I suspect I enjoyed the taste almost as much as the day off.

But what I remember most wasn’t the soup or the medicine. It was the routine.

Every weekday, the local AM radio station ran a promotion called The Cash Line. At the top of every hour, they’d randomly call someone from the local phone book and ask one simple question:

“Do you know how much money is in the Cash Line?”

If they guessed correctly, they won the jackpot. If not, the amount grew until the next call.

Nan took this contest very seriously.

She kept a small notepad beside the static-laden radio and carefully wrote down every winning amount. She was absolutely convinced that one day the phone would ring, and she’d be ready.

As the top of the hour approached, she’d spring into action.

“Nobody use the phone!” she’d announce. “The Cash Line is coming on!”

It never mattered that the odds were astronomically stacked against her. In her mind, today just might be the day.

And somehow… I believed it too.

Then there was The Price Is Right.

From eleven until noon, nothing interrupted Bob Barker. Nan would be sitting at one end of the couch and I’d be stretched out on the other beneath a blanket, gorging on saltine crackers and Sprite. Meanwhile, contestants would shout with excitement after hearing those famous words:

“Come on down!”

If someone won both showcases—or if a shiny new sports car was one of the prizes—it felt like we’d witnessed history.

I remember wanting to jump up and give Nan a celebratory high-five the one time someone pulled it off, but then I thought better of it. Acting too healthy probably wasn’t the best strategy if you were feigning illness to stay home from school — although looking back, I think she knew what I was doing.

By early afternoon, my miraculous recovery was usually complete, and the two of us would watch Bob Ross paint happy trees.

The next morning I’d be back at school, wondering at the top of every hour whether Nan’s phone had finally rung, or if someone had managed to win both showcases after I’d left.

Neither ever happened.

Years have a funny way of sneaking up on us. Today, I could stay home if I needed to. I could make my own chicken soup and find old YouTube videos of The Price Is Right and Bob Ross, but it wouldn’t be the same.

The Cash Line is gone, and so is Nan — it will be thirty years in December.

It’s funny the things we miss. Not the days off from school. Not even the orange pills or grape cough syrup. We miss the people who made ordinary days feel special. The ones who believed we’d eventually get that phone call. The ones who made chicken soup simply because that’s what you did when someone you loved wasn’t feeling well.

Every once in a while, I wish I could have just one more sick day. But not to avoid work.

Just to spend one more morning with Nan.