Christmas Morning
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Teenagers these days tend to want and get their own phones. So did Cyndi, back in the years that George Orwell had seen as a scary future. Pre-cellular, though, that didn’t usually entail a separate phone line, but just one’s own instrument, sharing what amounted to an in-house party line. In one’s own private territory.

Nobody else seems to think this was as good a joke as I intended, but I wrapped up a stuffed plush phone (blue, to reflect her eyes) in Ma Bell’s official box, with a brick to lend it gravitas. She played along, very sweetly, but saved her genuinely-pleased reaction for the real phone (also blue, of course) in the other package.

She never did treasure the squishy one, as I’d hoped she might, in memory of the gag. But Cyndi’s Blue Phone facilitated, from her private chamber at the head of the second-floor stairs, a whole lot of important adolescent communications, as long as she lived at Timbaloo. 		N001611BopPhonew
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