I liked, no, I loved my apartment. My solace. The one place that was mine. It was the place I looked forward to after a hard day's work. It was the place I holed up in during my bouts of unemployment. It was the place I began seriously writing. It was home.
Sometimes I would let the phone ring and ring.
Sue, when are you going to get an answering machine?
Sometimes I would just unplug the phone.
Hard knocking. Open the door. Sue, plug your phone back in.
Sometimes I wouldn't answer the knocking at the door.
Good habits continued onward into years later with the sharing of space, wherever it may be, with the husband. Today, that is the second and top floor of the mama's house.
Sometimes we let the answering machine pick up.
Sometimes we find messages on the machine days later from when they were made because we don't think about looking at the machine. Sorry.
Sometimes we don't answer the doorbell because we think it's part of the commercial or TV show that the mama is watching downstairs. That's just the way it goes.
In my apartment of many, many years ago, I used to find peace by sitting on my funky back porch while listening to James Taylor singing "Up on the Roof." Today, I came across a recording of him singing it in 1971.