My father, Frank, is 84 years old and he never calls me, at least on his own accord. We usually chat when I’m talking to my mother and he’s moseying around in the background of the conversation. He has a cell phone (old flip phone), but usually leaves it at my folks’ farmhouse whenever he ventures out. It’s always charging silently and unused next to his recliner in the back den.
The only time Frank ever calls me is if there’s something urgent or he has bad news about a relative or someone close to our family who has passed away back home in my native North Country of Upstate New York. Well, he called me the other day, my smart phone vibrating loudly, the name “Frank” on the incoming call. A momentary chill shot up and down my entire body.