Jen's Column / Phone

My kids are mesmerized by a rotary phone.

We bought the cream-colored 1970s model a couple weeks ago from Goodwill for $4.99. My son was asked to bring an old electric appliance to Camp Invention, and we couldn't find anything around the house we were ready to part with. (We were promised that whatever we sent wouldn't be returned in working — or even recognizable — condition at the end of the week.)

The phone caused such excitement at our house that you would've thought my husband had brought a garter snake into our kitchen. A chorus of, "Cool!" and "How does it work?" came from the counter, where the boys were poking at the holes in the clear dial and lifting the oversized receiver from its cradle. To them, the phone was alien — something they'd seen on TV, maybe, but had never experienced close up.

For me, the familiar sound of the dial turning in its place was like traveling in time. When I got up to demonstrate how the dial worked, my fingers automatically dialed 681-4565 — my Grandma Haugen's number. Even though it's been years since anyone was alive to answer it.

I was instantly transported to my childhood — and to the phone that sat on the ledge in my parent's split-level basement. It was black with off-white numbers and the kind of cord that didn't snap into the wall, but was permanently built in. I remember the stiffness of the dial, the "zing" as it returned to its original position (or "ziiiiiiing" if I was dialing an 8 or a 9), and the frustration of misdialing the last number and having to start over from the beginning.

The numbers I dialed on that old black phone are numbers I still know by heart, even though I haven't used them in years: My friend Kelly (681-4872), my dad's office (681-6161), the time-and-temperature lady (681-2710). But the first number I ever memorized was my Grandma Haugen's — the one person I could always count on to be waiting to pick up on the other end.

How I'd love to sit on that ledge, lean against that window, and call her one more time from that old black phone. I'd ask her how to make lefse and knit wool socks. I'd ask her to tell me the story about how she lied to Grandpa so he'd marry her, telling him she was older than her 15 years. I'd thank her for all the New Year's Eve's she spent as my party companion (a.k.a. babysitter) and the thousands of hours she spent playing Crazy 8s with me.

I wouldn't correct her and tell her that it's "wash" and not "warsh," and I'd pretend I was going to obey when she'd say, "Make sure you wear socks." I'd tell her that my youngest son's favorite mittens are the red-and-gray striped ones she made when I was six — and that I still think about her everyday.

Camp Invention is over. My son ended up taking an old radio and leaving the phone at home. And not because I'm a big sap who couldn't bear to part with the memories it brought. We actually reread the brochure the night before camp and realized that rotary-dial phones weren't allowed. In fact, they were listed under "dangerous" items. (Perhaps they feared a bloody fingers-stuck-in-the-dial accident?)

My husband helped the boys take the phone apart at home instead. The bells and wires and screws now reside in a large red bowl in our bedroom. They plan to make a doorbell out of it. As long as it doesn't involve any snakes, that's cool with me.