This was my telephone number growing up, from age 5 until my parents divorced, when I turned 21. It was the only way to get in touch with Dave, Annette, Janet, Diane, Susie (then, Susan) or Patty. If you called, someone would answer on one of 3 phones, located in the kitchen, Daddy’s office or downstairs on a pushbutton style desktop with a curly cord that was left, for whatever reason, on the orange-carpeted hallway floor that led to the “girls’ rooms.” All of those conversations (clandestine, reproving, heartspilling, babysitter-requesting) poured into the same three instruments.

If no one answered, you could not leave a message.


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