Ring, Ring, Ring

I can trace my social life through my relationship to a telephone.  My mother was a telephone operator so the telephone was a prominent feature in our home.  Ours (584-7839) was a black one with a rotary dial and it hung on the kitchen wall right next to the door between the kitchen and the living room.  When it rang I would not answer it, not for any reason.  The selectively mute me did not answer the phone for fear it would be someone on the other end to whom I did not normally speak.  Why startle them?

That phone had a long cord that could reach around the door into the next room.  So when you needed privacy you would stretch the cord and go as far away from the kitchen as possible.  If my father saw this, then heaven help you.  He did not like to see objects being used excessively and that stretched cord was too much for him.  

My older sisters shared their own line (582-6689) (I think), so when they moved out of the house I took it over and had my own private line.  By then I spoke to most people, and only my friends called that line anyway so I was safe.  I kept that phone until I got a job after college and my mother told me I had to pay for it.  I decided the kitchen phone was good enough for me.

To a teenager in my day the ring of a phone held infinite possibilities.  And if you were not there to answer it you would never know what treasure could be on the other end.  Later, in college when I was lovesick for one reason or another, the phone was a lifeline.  “He” might call.  I, of course could not call “Him”.  That was not the social norm.  What grief that receiver and numbers 0 – 9 could cause.

When I was married and out on my own I needed a phone to conduct household business and talk to family.  The romance of the ring was gone.  The phone was just another utility bill I had to pay.

Now I carry a phone in my purse, and I can be reached any time, any place.  Ironically, I have no social life to speak of, so it doesn’t ring often.  If only I had a cell phone in my lovesick years life would have been so much more enjoyable. Irony stinks.

These days I conduct most household business over the internet, so the phone in my house is only there because it is tied to my home security system.  It rarely rings unless some telemarketer needs me to take a survey, or a politician really needs my vote.  Or if there is an emergency.

So last night when my house phone rang at 10:39 I got a little panicked.  When my phone, home or cell, rings after 10:00 p.m. it should only be because someone is sick, hurt, or dying.  When my phone rang, my heart sank and I jumped out of bed and ran into the living room to answer it.  I narrowly missed stepping on a sleeping cat as I fell across the sofa to reach for the closest telephone in my proximity.  “Hello?” I asked anxiously, certain to hear a gasping voice asking for help.  Instead I heard a chipper female voice asking to speak to my husband.  I replied with a “No” in a voice laced with undertones of “are you out of your mind?”  There were other undertones I expressed, but I try not to use those words in good company.

About that time the answering machine picked up so my “who is this?” question was drowned out by my taped voice telling the unknown caller whose residence she had reached, and would she please leave a message.  She did not.  Nor did she leave her number on the Caller ID.  It read only “Blocked Call”.

My husband insists he does not know who the unknown caller was, and I believe him because I trust him.  In all truthfulness it was probably just a random prank call by someone who picked our number out of the phone book.  Nevertheless it left me in a foul mood to be sure.

So, just a word of warning, Blocked Call.  Do not call my house that late again unless you are lying in the road, bleeding, and in dire need of assistance.  Only then do you have my permission.  And maybe, just maybe, I’ll call 911 for you.