The phone of my childhood was a chunky white box with a rotary dial. It hung on the wall of the kitchen, next to the door that led to the garage. A coiled cord connected the receiver, a cord long enough to reach out the door and onto the cement step at the garage threshold. It was the only telephone in the house, so every incoming and outgoing call happened in the kitchen. Most of the time if the phone rang it was an indoor call—organize the school carpool, sign up for the church potluck, water the neighbor’s plants. But sometimes, whoever took the call would stretch the cord out into the garage and pull the door fast.