There was only one phone in our house on Jackie Lane—a green rotary-dial model that sat on the nightstand in my parents’ bedroom. It was heavy and solid, with a long, coiled cord that always seemed tangled no matter how carefully we tried to unwind it. That phone was the family’s lifeline to the outside world, and every evening my sister and I took turns using it to call our grandmothers.
We’d tell them about our day—what we’d learned at school, what Mom made for dinner, which neighborhood kid had gotten in trouble this time. It was our nightly check-in, our small way of making sure they were okay. But sometimes it wasn’t easy to reach them. Both of my grandmothers had what was called a “party line.” That meant they shared their phone line with another household, and if that other person was chatting, our call wouldn’t go through. You’d pick up the receiver and hear someone else’s conversation, and all you could do was hang up and try again later. Some nights it took half a dozen tries before we heard that satisfying click and the familiar “Hello?” on the other end.
Since it was the only phone in the house, that green rotary handled everything—from calls to our friends to the occasional important message. There was no such thing as privacy; if you wanted to talk to someone from school, you did it sitting on your parents’ bed with everyone walking in and out of the room. And of course, there was no caller ID back then. When it rang, you never knew who would be on the other end.
Sometimes it was my mother’s cousin, Ina—always mentioned with her husband, “Earl and Ina,” as though they were one person. They never had children, but Ina had a fondness for the phone—and for drinking. Once she got you talking, you were stuck. You couldn’t politely excuse yourself, because she wasn’t about to hang up. After a while, I became the unofficial “caller ID.” If the phone rang, I was sent to answer first to make sure it wasn’t Ina.
That same phone carried laughter, gossip, and the news of everyday life—but also sorrow. I still remember the day my mom got the call that Uncle Ollie had died.
Today, phones fit in our pockets and connect us instantly to anyone, anywhere. But that green rotary on the nightstand was more than just a piece of plastic and wire—it was connection, patience, and the sound of family. I can still picture it sitting there, waiting for the next call, as if it knew that every ring carried a story worth remembering.
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