Words + Images

In my family there has always been the ritual of “the Sunday phone call.”  My brothers and I knew that we were not to touch the phone at 5pm on a Sunday afternoon because either my mom or dad would be calling out or someone would be calling in.  The phone sat on a little wooden table in the hallway outside of my parents’ bedroom.  At this table, in a high back wooden chair, one of them would sit.  It seemed to us back then that my dad most oftened listened to whomever else was on the other line, while my mom was a talker.   Through my parents, through that one phone, we were connected to relatives cast far and wide across the nation.  Sometimes those relatives were right next door, but still the phone was used to catch up, to gossip, to share concerns as well as joy.  For a while after my parents died, my brothers and I tried to maintain the ritual.  It was hard.  It was too forced.  We were unsuccessful.  Instead we developed new rituals.  With cell phones we can catch up at anytime.  With email, we send each other notes and pictures.  And I, as the old fashioned one, still send little notes and cards through the post.  I thought of this ritual today, on this rainy Sunday, because I have spent most of the morning on my cell phone with friends and family.  The most surprising call was from my second oldest brother.  He said, “I keep getting your letters.  I know you want me to write back but I don’t write.  So I decided to pick up the phone.”  It was good to hear his voice.