303-794-2780
It has probably been 20 years since I called a phone number and heard the “disconnected” recording. It is one of the clearest recordings I’ve ever heard and it was so familiar even with all the passing time. There is a finality to it. It repeats the number twice and then a jarring bouncy tone comes on after, forcing you to hang up, fearing a hollow finality of sorts. I heard it many times as a child on a corded phone outstretched to its limits as my young body was tethered via a land line.
My sister, Tricia, remembers dates and time place continuums the best. She says that number was ours for 53 years (most likely considering the dates my parents moved to Denver). They might as well have been pioneers at that point, their life reality in the early 70s seems so curious and mythical to me right now. 2023 will most likely feel that way to my kids or grandkids soon enough.
To be honest, I thought it was 1969 when they came out here but I don’t remember. My parents are no longer able to share their wisdom. As a child, your curiosity compels you to dig and collect the stories, to join yourself into the weave. I only have what I retained to craft my perception of this life. Somewhere along the way, I threw down the compulsion to carry their stories as part of my own. Such is the whim of a child. Now I have my sisters to help me weave them back in to my being.
When I was younger, I didn’t care to capture it anyway. The framework I was born into felt rickety and weak by the time I was aware of it. It was as if the project was a abandoned and everything was left disintegrating. It was well built so it provided the support necessary for quite some time, but there was a hollow silence surrounding the space. It still echos in my being.
Often I wonder if it’s time to let this anger and disappointment go? What would my life look like if I compassionately looked on my childhood as the soil from which I sprung rather than a toxic wasteland it appears to be from my vantage point at 47. When I see with eyes looking at the despair, I feel hopeless about who I am and what I have become. It sidelines me from embracing all the talent and joy I hold in my being. It sidelines me from love and possibility.
Kids these days don’t know the disconnected recording. They don’t even have their friend’s numbers memorized. The ability to connect is so readily accessible that disconnecting now has become a concious choice. Oftentimes a phone number will be disconnected when someone moves but also when someone dies.
My childhood home transitioned to a new family 20+ years ago but that landline number stayed with my mother as she moved to her townhouse and then through three different assisted living facilities. Most days she answered it with an exuberance we all still joke about. My mom rarely used her phone the past two years. Mostly fundraisers would call and try to trick her out of money. All our pictures were on buttons so she could call us by facial recognition. Even with that, the phone was mostly confusing to her in the end.
Deb cut that cord this week, I would’ve done it a year ago to save money, without much thought. She admitted it was hard for her. As that line fell away, I sensed the end of an era; the releasing of an anchor I have carried for my entire life.