I finally did it.  I ended my Long Term Relationship.

 

She was the best I ever had, and I was sorry to tell her goodbye.  We literally grew up together, and she never let me down (well, hardly ever).  Whenever I needed her, she was always there, even when nobody else was.

 

But in the end, I just realized I didn't need her anymore.  Or rather, she just wasn't worth it.

 

I first hooked up with her when I went away to college in 1975.  But after 36 years together, I finally cut the cord. 

 

Literally.

 

I called Ma Bell and told her "It's over."  Okay, actually I called her daughter, Qwest, and said, "I never want to hear from you again."  Please disconnect.

 

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For those of us who grew up with Ma Bell (in Colorado, that was Mountain Bell), it's a sad realization that something as American as your home phone has come to an end.  No more listing in the phone book.  No more phone book, for that matter.  Who says "I'm in the book" anymore?

 

Those old phones (ours were both wall phones, a lovely beige) always worked.  Voice quality was almost always perfect.  If it wasn't, you said, "It sounds like you're calling long distance."  But the phone was always there, even when the power wasn't.  A phone call from grandpa was a family event, all of us huddled around the two phones (or running madly for Dad's office, hoping not to miss anything important before we could pick it up). 

 

Long distance calls, of course, were expensive, rare, and kept as short as possible (except when grandpa was paying).  The phrase "It's long distance" sent a shiver down your spine:  whoever it is, this is important! 

 

And of course, there were no fancy ringtones.  The ring had one tone: the tone of the metal ringer inside the phone!  What else would it possibly sound like, after all?

 

When I was a kid (as in the 1960s), our phone number in small town Wray, Colorado, was "39."  That's not thirty-nine, that's "Three Nine."  Mother ingrained in us: "If you are ever lost, go up to anyone and tell them to call Three Nine."  Thankfully I never had to do that.  Then again, it was a small town: everyone knew Dr. Neuswanger, the veterinarian.  All I would have needed was to say, "I'm Doc Neuswanger's boy" and they'd know what to do. 

 

But this further begs the question: how do you get lost in a town that's one mile across?  Downtown was never more than 10 blocks away.  I walked home (yes, uphill) for a mile many times.  I rode my bike from end to end in maybe 20 minutes (they were heavy bikes back then!).  Didn't wear a helmet and never had a problem.  I'm sure more than one driver slowed down or swung wide to cut me a break.

 

Ah, but I seem to have wandered far afield from the topic:  cutting the cord.  Then again, Mother died last year and Dad is in a nursing home 180 miles away from his homestead.  The old phone was finally retired in 2009 after the folks moved to Assisted Living.  Actually, they kept it for a year: it was the only way we could communicate from the house to the center when us kids visited.  After we finally dropped the landline, we were in a jam because the cell tower didn't penetrate the bluff next to the house.  We could drive a mile into town and get service...or drive two miles and just talk to them in person!

 

Today the old phone number still serves one useful purpose:  it's an easy to remember PIN number!  And unless you grew up in Wray and called Doc a lot, no one out there knows remembers what it is. 

 

There's a mark of distinction:  how many people have the same phone number for 40 years?  Or the same address?  Or the same spouse?  Forty years doesn't seem that long, but in today's world, it's almost unattainable for most poeple, I think.

 

Maybe that's why 40 was so important for God to require that his people wait.  He knew what was coming.