It was after 6:00 p.m. yesterday and the children — two boys, one  girl — were angling for some park time.  “You can play outside for a while, but you have to come in when I whistle for you,” said the mother. Maybe she was in the middle of cooking dinner, or had just changed from her work clothes. Or maybe she works at home, as I did when the girls were young.

But the whistling, that was unique. No texting, no agreed-upon time to be home. Just wait for the whistle. A bit canine,  to be sure. But deliciously old-fashioned.

Where I grew up in Lexington, only one family had a dinner bell. Other parents just cupped their hands around their mouths and yelled for their kids to come home in the evening. “Johnnnnny! Sallllly!” (Children had primary reader names back in those days.) These ersatz bullhorns are the original communication device, are they not?

And they did the job.  The kids came running home.

(These tunnels — I call them “snake eyes” — are near the park where the kids were playing.)