Member-only story
There was a young fisher named Fisher
Who fished by the edge of a fissure.
A fish with a grin
Pulled the fisherman in.
Now they’re fishing the fissure for Fisher.
- Author unknown
My landline rang. I rarely use it, preferring to use my cellphone, which also offers a text messaging option.
I debated whether to answer it. The possibility of it being something important was low. In the end I picked up the phone, a throwback to another era.
I still get a physical phonebook, however. It is easier just to accept it than protest. I put it in a cabinet and promptly forget I have it, till I find the next one on my sidewalk.
Decades ago, when but a preschooler, I was playing with some forgotten toy while sitting on the faded linoleum of the old house in which I grew up.
My mother and I were alone in the house. Siblings were in school and my father was teaching chemistry.
My mother picked up the phone, which was black and wall mounted, and dialed. In those days the dialer was rotary. You could almost guess the number by the time it took the dialer to return to its original position.
