Monday, October 6, 2014

Is Wilma There?

The phone rings late last night.

The female voice on the other end starts talking (not uncommon around here) and I listen, trying to figure out who it is.

Unsuccessful, I finally ask, “I’m sorry.  Who am I talking to?”

“Oh.  Is Wilma there?”

I tell her she’s got the wrong number, this is the church number and then she asks me if I’ve got Wilma’s number.

The funny thing is that I know who she’s asking for.

Just to be sure, I ask, “Wilma Obaugh?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“I don’t, but let me look it up real quick.”

Turns out she had the right number, but had just hit a wrong button.

And then we talked a bit ourselves, about the drop in the temperature, whether it would frost, old fingers hitting wrong buttons – the light conversation of two women late at night with nothing but time and a little grace for a stranger on our hands.

I hope she got ahold of Wilma – I know she’ll be glad to hear from her.


  1. Whenever I dial a wrong number, invariably I can identify the person I've accidentally called by their voice, if it's in Highland. The beauty of small town living.

    1. Ginny - that's it, exactly - to live in a place where even a wrong number is someone you know. Awesome. Beth

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