These days, “calling” someone usually means pulling out a cell phone from a pocket or purse, rapidly typing a message in abbreviated “text” format using nothing more than two thumbs, or talking “face to face” or better said “screen to screen” via Face Time.
There was an era, though, when “calling” on someone meant stopping by his or her home for a visit. If you watch “Masterpiece Theater,” or were around in the early 20th century, you know that formal “callings” required knocking on the door and dropping an engraved card into a dish, which was then transported, via the “help,” to the home’s resident while the caller waited patiently to see if he or she would be invited in for a visit. This practice was for the idle and the rich; working people had no time for such frivolities.
As I’m now one of the idle (though not of the rich) I’ve been “calling” a lot this summer, but my practice seems to fall somewhere between the two examples described above. I have a love/hate relationship with my cell phone, enjoying the “connectivity” it gives me, but disliking what happens to language when it gets abbreviated into one-letter words, and worse, when communication is in the form of those hideous emoticons — I thought we had progressed beyond sending out round yellow faces, happy or otherwise. Still, the cell phone is invaluable when, in an instant, we hear of friends who’ve been rushed to the hospital, diagnosed with cancer, or stranded on the road with a flat tire.
My preferred method of calling on friends no longer requires an engraved card, but politeness does require a knock on the door before entering. My visits last in duration from several minutes to an hour. During this summer’s heat wave, I must confess to more than a few prolonged visits predicated in part by the knowledge that the friend lives in an air conditioned home, something I only dream of. Cool air, friends’ welcoming smiles, a glass of ice water and time to chat feel like special gifts on a hot afternoon.
The gifts I bring on my callings are most likely to be of the garden variety — the beans are exploding, carrots are ready for pulling, and the tomatoes are ripening. In the winter, I often dropped off a baked good while visiting, but in summer the oven is as idle as I am.
Some visits require hours of prep, but only brief moments of time spent in the homes of exhausted pals. Sleep deprived parents of newborn babies introduce their little ones to me; friends receiving chemotherapy know that “now” is all they are sure of. These friends need me to nourish them — I love to cook, and they need my edible creations. They nourish me, reminding me of the preciousness of life.
I just gave away my heavy, dark brown rotary dial telephone, circa 1978, to the Goodwill. After it served as our home phone, it lived life as a toy for our daughter, and then as a prop in my kindergarten classroom’s dress-up corner until it found its most recent home in the dark recesses of my basement. Comparing its size, weight and clumsy dialing mechanism to that of a cell phone is quite a revelation. But I always enjoyed the sound of the dial and the pressure of it on my finger as I clicked each number, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise, around the circle.
With objects come stories and memories. When we can’t remember the specifics of a memory, my mother-in-law and I rely on our journals. I’ve been writing in mine on a daily basis since 2000. My mother-in-law, though, has been a faithful chronicler since the 1950s. Now, she spends hot afternoons rereading her journals. I frequently join her. Often, tucked between the handwritten pages, are recipes, articles, and our favorite, inadvertently funny, clippings — the “bloopers” that got overlooked when proofreaders were scanning the newspaper moments before its publication. On a recent hot afternoon, we hunkered down in the cool of her office and began rereading some of her favorites. A bride’s gown is listed as “styled with a scoop neckline outlined with lice medallions embroidered with sequins.” Sunday School and “Bile Classes” are offered at a Lutheran church. Wilbur A. Layman receives his “Ph Degree in the field of chemistry.” An advertisement states “For Sale: Chicken Manure $10 per PU” and the ad for Hood River Bartlett Pears states “Sweet and juicy. Fresh picked from the famous Yakima Valley orchards in Washington.” Clam Chowder is “$50 a bowl” at King Fish Trading Company in The Dalles. Or dine at Rich’s Kitchen, where the food columnist urges his readers to try the homemade soup. “It’s very Italian in taste and texture, right down to the large bay leaf in the bowel.” Finally, it’s embarrassing enough to find your name listed in this paper’s Matter of Public Record, but imagine reading your name there the week that the typesetter left the all important “l” out of the word “public,” making one’s offense even more offensive.
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