The phone rang early this morning. Well, early in relative terms—it being a Sunday and all. While its shrill cry failed to penetrate my wall of slumber, I awoke to Miles stumbling from the bed in an effort to slay the ringing beast.
I overheard snippets of conversation involving the weather—Clue #1: It was definitely a Midwesterner. That narrows the field by... not much at all. Most of our telephone calls happen to arrive from America's Heartland.
My second clue, the early hour, all but locked in the caller's identity. However, I was fuzzy-minded from sleep and unwilling to invest serious effort into thought—by God the coffeemaker wasn't even on yet!
Then...THEN!...Miles said the caller's name....Roger. NO! Maybe Miles knew of another Roger other than my father! I assumed that was the case. No, I hoped that was the case, for otherwise I would soon be summoned from my nice, warm bed to the stark cold of the phone.
Finally, the definitive moment arrived, and I knew, dejectedly, the caller to be him: "Sure, Roger! I'll get her for you, hold on!"
"Hi Dad!"
He's really a very loveable man, and I do enjoy our calls...heartily so, in fact; I do hope I wasn't overly short with him. I've not been known to be a morning person, and I cannot seem to recall the conversation. Once, during college, he called my dorm room at 5 or 6 in the morning!—my best friend Sarah and I were alarmed, thinking that there must certainly be an emergency for someone to call so early…
But, no.
The poor, dear man—he really should know by now that if he plans on catching me before coffee, he's got a coin-flip's chance at my disposition.
