Dad hated new technology. Hated it with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. His nemesis? Cell phones. “Rotary phones,” he’d bellow, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses, “Rotary phones built character! You actually had to work for your conversation!”
So, when Dad proudly presented his “newfangled contraption” – a bright red, landline rotary phone he’d salvaged from a closing antique shop – the family braced themselves. Mom sighed, my sister rolled her eyes, and I just pictured the sheer agony of trying to order pizza.
The first few days were filled with Dad yelling, “Hold your horses! I’m dialing!” followed by the rhythmic clicking and whirring of the rotary dial. It took approximately five minutes to call the local ice cream parlor.
Then came the incident with Grandma Betty. Grandma Betty, bless her heart, was a little hard of hearing. Dad, determined to show off his rotary prowess, dialed her number with painstaking precision. The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
Finally, a very faint voice answered, “Hello…?”
Dad, leaning into the phone with the force of a hurricane, boomed, “BETTY! IT’S ME, HAROLD! HOW ARE YOU?”
A long silence. Then, a tiny, almost inaudible whisper, “Harold… is that you? Is everything alright? Did you accidentally call from inside a washing machine?”
