Many years ago, my father surprised me when he asked for my help in buying a computer.

“What do you need a computer for?” I said. “You’re retired and you spend most of your time around the house. You get the newspaper and Time. What else could you possibly need?”

“The weather,” he said.

“Weather?”

“Yeah, I want to be able to look it up. Anytime, anywhere.”

“You could go outside for that.”

“Not if I want to know the weather tomorrow.”

And so we went down to the local computer store and bought him a machine that far exceeded his needs (and now, five years later, is hopelessly out of date, which is fine, he says, “because it suits my needs, like checking the weather”).

I was surprised again during a recent visit home when my mom asked for my help in buying a cellphone.

“Why?” I said. “You’re always home. Mobile phones are designed for people who are mobile.”

When my parents do go out, it is to shop for groceries or have lunch. Mostly lunch.

“We don’t go out to dinner,” my mom says. “Too crowded. Even at 4 now you’ll have a lot of people out. Sometimes we’d have to park two or three rows away from the front door. So now we just go out to lunch.”

This is not the demographic Alltel and Cingular had in mind when introducing unlimited anytime minutes for $79.99 with a free camera-phone. My parents’ telecommunication needs had been well-served by the touch-tone phone that had hung on the kitchen wall for more than 20 years. The six-foot radius of the cord satisfied their mobile needs.

A cellphone seemed about as necessary as dinner reservations. This is, after all, a couple that has refused to get an answering machine because, “If anyone wants us that badly, they can call back.”

“It’s not for me,” mom said. “It’s for your dad.”

Ah, so the gadget-master had something to do with this. My dad, like most men, has a desire for devices that is inversely proportionate to the device’s usefulness. When I was a young child with no understanding of man’s lust for gadgets – especially those that came with manuals that would be picked up only in case of emergency, like sparks and fire – I did not question my dad’s request for a bottle cutter. According to the commercials that blanketed each of our five available TV channels, with the Amazing Bottle Cutter, you could cut various bottles to make ashtrays and any other items requiring a cut bottle (which were numerous in the ads, but I think each was a variation on the ashtray).

My dad used the gadget to produce any number of weapons-grade cut bottles, not always successful in avoiding the lethal edges that never appeared in the ads. Many a Michelob bottle was magically transformed into shards, since the bottle cutter employed techniques (etching a line with the cutter portion, which was supposed to crack cleanly using heat and cold) that now would feed a generation of personal-injury attorneys.

Later on my dad would ask for, and receive, a winemaking kit (the smell from the first and last try lingered for weeks), a flashlight powered by squeezing its handle (leading to the invention of carpal tunnel syndrome), and a weather radio (real-time weather for those not blessed with windows and a door).

“Does dad really need a cellphone?” I said. “Or is this another bottle-cutter moment?”

“Well, he’d carry it,” my mom said. “But it’s for me too. Sometimes he’s out and I want to know I can call if I need to.”

So I accompanied my dad to the wireless store. Good thing because left to his own devices, and a clerk who could not understand how anyone could pass up unlimited minutes including voicemail and text messaging for just $79.99 a month, my father would have walked out of their with the Cadillac of phones when all he needed was a two-wheeler.

“Let’s call mom,” he said the second we stepped out of the store. “To see if it really works.”

Sure dad, because maybe the pixie magic required to make phone calls out of thin air hasn’t been fully charged.

“OK, just punch in the number-“

“Wait,” he said, holding the phone to his ear. “Something’s wrong. I’m not getting a dial tone.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” I said. “You dial the number first, then press the send button. The phone then connects and makes the call.”

“You mean I don’t need a dial tone?”

“You will get a dial tone, but only after you hit the send button.”

“What’s the send button?”

“That green one right there.”

“This one? It’s pretty small. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Size has nothing to do with it.” Why does that sound familiar?

“Is there anything I need to do before I just start dialing?” dad said. “Or do I just start hitting numbers?”

“You can turn on the phone.”

“Where?”

“That button on top.”

“Here? I don’t see a button.”

“Just press it and see what happens.”

A tinny chime came from the phone.

“Well, how about that?” dad said. “The button’s right there but you can’t see it. Clever.”

“OK, now dial your number and press that green button there.”

“No, you do it. I just want to watch for now.”

He was open to more hands-on exploring when we arrived home. For the next hour we added phone numbers to the address book (there were only five, though I regret not putting 911 on speed dial) as I showed him the various features.

“Now I’m going to show you have to use the voice tag,” I said. “That way you can just say the person’s name and the phone will dial it automatically.”

“Really?” dad said, his eyes lighting up like when he saw the Amazing Bottle Cutter for the first time.

“I’ve programmed a few, so let’s try this one,” I said. “Press this button here, hold it and say ‘Call mom.’”

He took the phone, put it an inch to his mouth and leaned forward. “Call mom.”

“No, you have to press and hold this button, then say it.”

“Call mom.”

“OK, first you don’t have to be so close to the phone. Hold it out here. Now when you press that button, you’ll hear a series of tones. Then say, ‘Call mom.’”

The phone beeped. “Call mom.”

“See, you have to press and hold the button,” I said. “If you just press the button, the phone beeps and your address book comes up. Here, watch.”

I press and hold, and the phone chimed. “Call mom.” A few seconds later, the kitchen phone rang.

“Got it,” he said, taking the phone. “I just press this and … Call mom.” The phone chimed.

“You have to wait for the tone,” I said. “Maybe it would just be easier if you dialed. Now let’s see if you’ve got voice mail.”

Abandoning all that my dad had taught me, I reached for the instruction manual, opened it to the appropriate page and learned how to do something without 15 minutes of fruitless experimentation. It was an odd feeling.

“This seems pretty easy,” I said. “I think I’ve got it. I’m going to call the number from the kitchen. Just let it ring.”

“OK.”

I lifted the kitchen phone off the hook and dialed. The cellphone trilled.

“Hello,” dad answered.

“Dad, what are you doing? I told you to let it ring.”

“I did let it ring. Then I answered it.”

“Well, hang it up. I need you to let it ring to see if it goes to voicemail.”

“But that phone doesn’t have voicemail. We’ve never had an answering machine.”

“Not this phone, the cellphone.”

“Oh, right, right,” dad said. “This phone is separate from the phone we have now, right? Or do we have to buy an answering machine? Because I don’t think we’ll want that because the only people who call us want to sell us new windows.”

The lessons ended shortly afterward. I just hope my dad never discovers the “Accessories” part of the menu. How am I going to explain web surfing and ring downloads?