When I moved to California almost twenty years ago I moved west from my east coast roots which meant I entered a new time zone. There was now a three hour difference with me being three hours earlier than my family.
I remember my first week in Los Angeles. The sun. The great temperatures. Everything smelled new. It was all very exciting.
And then Sunday arrived.
I was nestled in my new bed lost in dreamtime when the phone rang jolting me out of my reverie. I glanced at the clock and it was 7:55 AM. Who would be calling me so damn early?
In my half-asleep hoarse voice I mumbled a curt, yet friendly, hello. On the other end were my parents all excited to hear about the my new adventures in the land of cacti, palm trees, and tofu. They had just come home from church, poured themselves a cup of coffee, and were relaxing around the kitchen table.
It never occurred to them that I might still be asleep.
I never had the heart to tell them it was way too early to call.
Over the years - almost twenty - I was able to gently move the Sunday morning calls from 7:55 to 8:05 to 8:15 etc. until this past year we arrived at 9:20 AM. Yes, every Sunday morning I received a call. It was our tradition. I learned to look forward to it and in my own routine began getting up a few minutes before the call, brewing some medium roast coffee, and anticipating the ring of the phone.
That call was the family connection, the lifeblood from which I came, a comfort, and a anchor when life got too hectic.
Sadly, last week the calls changed forever when my mother died after a brief illness. Of course I still have dad to talk to, but with mom gone the Sunday morning call will never be quite the same.
I remember my first week in Los Angeles. The sun. The great temperatures. Everything smelled new. It was all very exciting.
And then Sunday arrived.
I was nestled in my new bed lost in dreamtime when the phone rang jolting me out of my reverie. I glanced at the clock and it was 7:55 AM. Who would be calling me so damn early?
In my half-asleep hoarse voice I mumbled a curt, yet friendly, hello. On the other end were my parents all excited to hear about the my new adventures in the land of cacti, palm trees, and tofu. They had just come home from church, poured themselves a cup of coffee, and were relaxing around the kitchen table.
It never occurred to them that I might still be asleep.
I never had the heart to tell them it was way too early to call.
Over the years - almost twenty - I was able to gently move the Sunday morning calls from 7:55 to 8:05 to 8:15 etc. until this past year we arrived at 9:20 AM. Yes, every Sunday morning I received a call. It was our tradition. I learned to look forward to it and in my own routine began getting up a few minutes before the call, brewing some medium roast coffee, and anticipating the ring of the phone.
That call was the family connection, the lifeblood from which I came, a comfort, and a anchor when life got too hectic.
Sadly, last week the calls changed forever when my mother died after a brief illness. Of course I still have dad to talk to, but with mom gone the Sunday morning call will never be quite the same.
Comments
Thinking of you ,
Jane