On the Monday after Easter, Mike Chason received a call  from a Tifton number. He answered, “Hello,” and the man responded likewise but added nothing more. Mike said, “Hello,” again. 

“Do I have the right number?” the fellow asked. Mike said, “I don’t know if you do or not.” “I’m sorry,” the caller replied, “I must have the wrong number.” That prompted my friend to suggest a column: “Do I have the right number?”

Mike’s brief exchange reminded me of a call made by my Uncle Emmett from Joiner’s Store. My uncle talked slowly, plus would pause to take the cigar out of his mouth. Sometimes he’d momentarily stare at his Tampa Nugget, perhaps allowing time to further consider his words.

Uncle Emmett dialed Mr. Tom Sangster’s house one day, a neighbor who lived within sight of the store. Mr. Tom’s teenage son, Joe, answered the phone. Joe said, “Hello,” three times without getting a response. “Alright,” Joe warned, “I’m going to hello one more time!”

That was in the early 1960s, the era of party lines in our rural community. Our house was connected with nine of our neighbors. The only way to know if the party line was in use was to pick up and listen. It was easy to hear when a receiver was lifted, but there was no way of knowing who it was.

“Someone is listening in,” my mother would say if the unidentified person tarried more than she deemed appropriate. “Maybe they’ll hang up. If not, I’ll call you back.” It was the standard protocol for unwanted eavesdropping.

Conversations were sometimes interrupted for acceptable purposes. Mama could quickly identify who was talking so occasionally would join in, perhaps to decide who was taking what to the covered dish dinner on Sunday. It was an early form of social media.

At other times Mama might tell the callers she was looking for my father and ask if they’d seen him. Sometimes she’d inquire if they would let her make an urgent call, like ordering fuel for an empty diesel tank.

One memorable phone incident involved Daddy’s unorthodox manner of resolving a problem. A young girl kept calling our house asking, “Is Mama Hester there?” Each time my mother would politely explain she had the wrong number. This went on for several weeks.

Daddy answered the phone one night during supper, correctly assuming it was the same caller. “Is Mama Hester there?” she asked. Daddy summoned his deepest voice and replied sternly with considerable volume, “This is Mama Hester!” That was the last time we heard from her. I hope she survived the scare.

A totally unexpected call came to me in March from my late brother. The display showed “Jimmy Joiner,” so I didn’t answer. Then I got a text asking, “Who is this?” I assumed it was a scam, but Seth, our favorite son, suggested Jimmy’s number may have been reassigned.

It turned out I had pocket dialed Jimmy’s number without knowing it, prompting a return call and then a text. I explained what happened to a man who lives in Hawkinsville. He was very polite and even told me he was sorry about my brother. 

I drifted off topic with these ramblings, but will close with something that seems more on track. Fifty or so years ago, while working with my cousin at Bowen-Everett Funeral Home, I saw an especially unique floral arrangement. Among the hundreds of flowers seen during my  five-year period of employment, it’s the only one I could still identify in a lineup.

A dark red rotary-dial phone was attached to a circular wreath of flowers. Across the open center was a banner emblazoned with gold letters that read, “JESUS CALLS.” Although the occasion was somber, I’ll admit to stifling a laugh. All during the service I wished I could make that phone ring.    

In John 10:27 Jesus said, “My sheep hear my voice, and I know them.” In Matthew 7:24 he offers a contrasting scenario: “I never knew you; depart from me.” We each should consider without delay, what would Jesus say if he called today? 

Would he speak my name joyfully and welcome me into his open arms? Or would he ask a sobering question that has already been answered. “Do I have the right number?”