There used to be something known as a long distance phone call.
Before Substack philosophers.
Before algorithm mode America.
Before the thousand-year flood of knowledge.
When I stood in an evening hour
In the Overton’s Grocery parking lot
282 miles away from my foothills home
Dialing zero, area code, and Dad’s number,
So that the operator would intervene
Pleasantly, mechanically, till I’d
Say, awkwardly, collect from Tim,
And I could hear Dad interrupt
The operator with a breathless yes
Before she could finish asking, will you accept?
The minutes were so precious on
The long distance phone call that
Mom would pick up the auxiliary phone
In their bedroom so that she could share
In whatever calamity had made the call
Necessary: unexpected money owed
The university, a failing grade, a breakup
With a girlfriend, and though I might be
High on weed or recovering from a party
Or an all-night test prep, I would manage
To whittle down the chit chat to what
Seemed essential and dad would stop Mom
From telling me every detail about what
Was going on at work or at Dad’s church,
Because they were frugal and they could feel
The charge climbing quarter by quarter
Because a long distance call was like
Riding in a cab with its running meter.
Then mom would say her I love you-bye,
And Dad would try to end on a high note
With a something Paul Harvey had said,
Or a nugget he was proud of from
This past Sunday’s sermon, and I would
Have to hang up or the homesickness
Would overwhelm me or the guilt
For though I had reversed the charges
I felt I was somehow paying for the call.
