I was working on Lola Vogel’s obituary when I answered the phone. (Lola was 95 and passed peacefully of old age. The service is Saturday at 2 at the Presbyterian Church.)
“Crystal?”
“Nope. This is Heather. You must have the wrong number.”
“Oh, hi Heather, it’s Barb.”
My friend Barb explained that she was volunteering down at the museum, and had found Crystal’s purse under a counter, and thought she might like it back, even though she knew she was out of town, and must have had to use her passport for ID traveling, since her wallet was in the purse, but she’d surely be happy to know it was found, so Barb was trying call Crystal’s husband, and since there was no phone book down there, she tried to recall the number, and couldn’t be certain, although she knew it was on the middle line on her phone with the 2 and 5. So she punched in a good guess, and reached me instead.
I looked up the correct number for her, and I asked Barb if she knew Lola well enough to tell me a story for the obituary. She did know and like Lola very much, and they exchanged letters after Lola moved down south to be near her family a few years ago. But Barb said she couldn’t share any stories, because they met in a confidential hospice group.
Some things are public, and some things are private, and sometimes a wrong number is just right.
