My home phone number has been in my family for most of my life. It's easy to remember and most people who know me well can probably rattle the number off the top of their heads in sing-songy fashion because it's so familiar. My grandparents had one of those kinds of phone numbers too. I hated to have it disconnected after my grandmother died (my grandfather preceded her in death by some 17 years) because she and her husband had that phone number going all the way back into the 1950s when they moved a house onto an empty lot and started new lives there.
Something inside of humans resists being referred to as a number, and yet, if anybody knows the right numbers, they can get in touch with us through one gadget or another. So, maybe resistance if futile. I only know that in my case, familiar phone numbers are part of the routines of life that bring me comfort.
For a couple of months after my grandmother died, I'd call her phone, knowing that nobody would pick up, but just dialing the number made everything seem okay for a minute. I did the same thing with my dad's cell phone after he died, only he had a voice mailbox. Hearing his voice allowed me to fool myself for the briefest of time into thinking he was just busy and he'd call me back.
I probably would have given up my home phone number quite some time ago if I didn't have a roommate who doesn't have a cell phone. I rarely answer the home phone now. It's been around for so long that it's on every possible telemarketer's list (even though I have indeed registered with the Do Not Call list). And it receives more wrong number phone calls than any number I've ever had. But I would still hate to give it up. It has a history and it's so familiar.
