New tattoo. Swollen ankle.

Still in Kansas City. My family friends Howard and Vickie left their house to us because they went on vacation so we get to stay here an extra day before the hotel. Teared up a bit when they left. It was so good seeing them. And two close friends of mine got engaged here! I’d say so far it’s been a pretty good trip! God is good.

Kansas City, Missouri. Seeing family friends.

Blurred: My City.

Summer days. Perfect weather. Love it.

When I was growing up in Fairfield, Ohio, I was given one number to memorize. Being a child has its obvious benefits, but it also has its advantages in ways that others do not think about. It seems that every year I have a new number to commit to memory whether it is my social security number, the number on my driver’s license, or numbers to access money in my bank accounts.  While my mind is currently, as an adult, now jumbled with various patterns of different numbers, I still hold dear the number that used to stand alone in my memory. The number that was not a burden to learn by heart because it had a rhythm to it that caused me to forget why I needed to know it in the first place. My home phone number is a number that is still etched into my mind, reminding me of my old life, and the events of my life that shaped me into the person I am today.

It was before the day that I received my first cell phone. If my friends wanted to get in touch with me, it was almost impossible for them to reach me without interference. If they really wanted to speak with me, it was possible that they would have to endure my father’s goofy sense of humor or my mother’s incessant questions about how they were doing that day. My older brother may have also answered grumpily, causing nervousness amongst my friends, especially my old boyfriends who knew of my brother’s protective watch over me. My sister may have intercepted the call, overwhelming the person on the other end as she tried her hardest to speak to the caller and keep control over her newly born child at the same time. The people that called to speak to me normally hung up with a general idea what my family was like; qualities in my family members’ personalities that I had never really noticed myself.

My first home phone number contributed to parts of my life in more ways than I can count. It was the number that I gave my first boyfriend so we could talk late into the night about nothing in particular, which always resulted in my mother yelling at me for staying up so late. It was the number that my best friend called when we wanted to plan our next reckless adventure in the neighborhood creeks. This number was called many times, bringing my family together in some instances and tearing us apart in others. My principal called this number when I got in a great deal of trouble at school for cursing at my hated bus driver. I went home that day in tears because I knew how much trouble I would be in, only to find my whole family laughing with me because they could not believe that the baby of the family was capable of using such profanity. The number was called to announce that my father had finally passed away after years of sickness, unraveling the threads of hope we clung to that he would get better, distancing us profoundly.

Even after moving away from that home in Fairfield, the number continues to be impactful. When I shop at the grocery store, that number is still the ID that I use at the check out, reminding me of my old home. The home phone numbers of the new houses that I moved to were numbers that I never bothered to remember because they were not numbers to my home. They were numbers to houses that my mother tried her hardest to turn into homes for us, but they never met our expectations. They never met the standards of our old home, the one that shaped and molded us into the people we are now. While many would think of their home phone numbers as unimportant, our home phone number signified that this old house was our home and that no other house could replace it.

I believe that if many people were asked a question about something that was life changing for them, many would be quick to answer by describing an important event of their childhood, or maybe a person that played an important role in their lives. My idea of something life changing, something that helped shape my family and myself, is as simple as a phone call. My home phone number allowed others to briefly see inside our home, permitting them to sneak a glimpse at what our lives were like. Those seven digits enabled me to conspire with my friends, resulting in us making many mistakes, but it also helped me to rectify those mistakes and grow up. Those seven numbers are still significant to me, each digit bringing with it images of what my life used to be and what it is now.