From Tel to Cell

Friday night, March 3, 1950, 6 p.m.
I was 15. In my bedroom. Staring at
the telephone for hours, praying for
“him” to call. I was madly in love
with him but I can’t remember who
him was.

And I worshiped Dorothy Parker.
She knew about the heartache of love.

Oh the self-absorption and lack of
self-esteem of my teenage years.
Thank goodness that doesn’t last forever.
Or does it?

I don’t wait for the telephone to ring
anymore. It took me three broken hearts and
years of therapy to realize that if a “he”
didn’t call, it was his loss. Right?

Did you ever make phony phone calls when
you were a kid? My best friend Dora and
I would. We’d call a number from the
telephone book and if someone answered,
Dora would say (I was too shy), “Are the Walls
there?” And if the person said “no” Dora would
say, “Then what’s holding up the roof?” and
we’d both laugh hysterically.

Answering the telephone is like opening
Pandora’s Box. You never know what
you’ll find.

It could be Nancy who makes believe
she’s my friend and calls me once a week
to warn me to clean my gutters.

Or it could be my dental hygienist
calling for me to come in for a cleaning.

I also get wrong numbers who don’t even
want to talk.

Worst of all, it could be a relative calling.

It’s never that guy who used to be on
TV and called strangers to tell them they
won a million dollars.

I’ve had all shapes and sizes of phones.
I’ve been all shapes and sizes.

I’ve had all colors of phones. I’ve had all
colors of hair, too.

I don’t have an i-phone. I don’t want a
screen notifying me every second about
what someone I don’t know thinks I
should know.

Who wants to carry the troubles of the
world around with them? I’ve got my
own troubles.

I am never never never going to have
a phone where people can see you.
What if they call you in the morning
when you just get out of bed? Before
you do all those things that make you
become you?

I’ve had many calls that I guess were
memorable. Some must have made me
happy. Some must have surprised me.
I can’t remember any of them.

There’s only one call I remember. When
my 2-year old son David had a 24 hour
intestinal virus. He was getting very
dehydrated. My doctor said to take him
to the hospital.

The call came that night,
Monday, Feb. 24, 1964, at 10 p.m.
“This is the pediatric ward
at East Orange Hospital.
We’re very sorry.
Your son has expired.”

The telephone has brought me much joy
and much sorrow. Just like life.

You’re just a button click away and I’d love
to hear from you.

About your world, your family, your joys
and frustrations, growing up, growing older, even recipes– even though I stopped cooking–by request–years ago.

Goodbye until next time…

Hope your day turns out as well as I hope(but doubt) mine will,

Gingy (Ilene)

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