Our farmhouse telephone looked like a creature born of wood and wire. Square-headed, it was fitted out with bulging silver eyes, a long black beak connected to a flaring mouth, a pair of mismatched ears – cylindrical receiver dangling down the left side, short metal crank protruding from the right. It shrilled all day from its position on the kitchen wall, a different ring for every family on the party line and there were twelve of them. We knew them all. LONG-LONG-SHORT-LONG – that brought four daughters running hopefully. The calls were usually for Mama, who fluffed her hair out with a nervous hand, tucked in her blouse and smiled as if her friends could spy right through the snout. - Sara DeLuca
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