Those Wednesday Phone Calls

by Lesley Misko

Larson Carson is a bit of a “character.”

He is intelligent and thoughtful, creative and adventurous, insightful and caring, and most definitely, a bit of a prankster.

One early October morning some years ago, you would have found him at the Leesport Farmer’s Auction where a truckload of pumpkins kept whispering to him. He bought the pumpkins, splitting the load with another man lured by the orange siren’s call, and paid this other guy to deliver the pumpkins to his Boyertown area home, where they were unceremoniously dumped in a heap on his lawn.

Not eager to have his wife see his vast pumpkin pile, he scattered them around the property, partially obscuring them with shrubbery of various types. All visitors to the home were absolutely required to leave with a pumpkin in hand. Anyone who rejected the offer was prohibited from leaving. Even strangers walking by on the street, were encouraged to take a pumpkin. It was an offer no one could refuse. Eventually the pumpkins were gone, though I do think a few renegade pumpkin plants began to grow here and there the next spring.

The Leesport Farmers Auction, having proved its worth, became the scene of more mischief as time passed. The next time it was a truckload of cauliflower heads calling to Carson, “Take us home. Take us home.” Stealing from his own playbook, he attempted to force the heads of cauliflower on all visitors. It didn’t go well. So instead, he held some friends captive in his kitchen, where he persuaded them to cook various recipes of cauliflower soup. Despite the attempt at diversity, in the end, they all tasted like, well, cauliflower.

Carson’s pranks were not restricted to produce. One year, at another auction, he purchased a large caseload of Christmas ornaments. They were round balls that looked antique and on their surface was painted a map of the world. It would have been a worthy geography lesson and a nice addition to a Christmas tree— but it turned out that all these globes depicted the world during the time of Christopher Columbus. It will not surprise you to know that everybody who visited, was, well, you know, required to take one … or better yet, two.

Most recently, it is rumored that he has purchased many magazines about collecting beer cans. Personally, I’m not going anywhere near him until they all have homes—with someone other than me.

Four years ago, life took a heartbreaking turn when my husband, son, and I had to share the news with friends that my husband had been diagnosed with an unusual kind of cancer and that his prognosis was terminal. Friends were stunned and reacted with shock and sadness, offering support in whatever ways they felt able.

Carson responded to our family’s devastation by telling me he would call every Wednesday. I felt bewildered. Given his impish personality, I wondered if it was an attempt to be funny in an effort to cheer us up. If so, I thought it was peculiar. It didn’t help that I’m a pretty strong introvert, inclined to clam up and avoid phone calls in the best of times. I was so depressed and overwhelmed, I don’t think I even said anything in response.

And so, those Wednesday calls began and I was stressed and anxious about how to handle them. I could not understand why someone might think either my husband or I would feel up to chit chatting about random things, or worse yet, exposing our heartbroken feelings and thoughts. Sometimes my husband answered the phone and spoke briefly, but his ability to interact diminished as the days passed, and I was left to deal with the call. I didn’t want to be rude or offend a friend, but sometimes I just couldn’t answer.

Surprisingly to me, as time moved towards the inevitable moment of loss, I began to feel more comfortable with the calls. There were no required topics of discussion. Sometimes we talked about my husband’s illness and sometimes we talked about other things and other people. The calls felt “okay,” even comfortable some days.

Though several years have passed, it still hurts deeply to revisit these events and this time, so I’ll simply share that the calls continued after my husband was gone and I embraced them increasingly. They helped keep me afloat; they helped to keep me from sinking into the seeming emptiness of life.

I don’t think it was an accident that Carson said he and his lovely bride (as he calls her) would call every Wednesday. He wasn’t being a prankster. He had a plan. In offering Wednesday calls, Carson offered a lifeline amid intense isolation. There was no pressure. He was treating us as normal people who were not permanently broken. At a time when some people disappeared or offered casual “how ya doin’” text messages, the Wednesday calls were predictable and reliable. Their consistency provided security … the realization that someone out there understood and cared. In a place and time when we cannot rely on much, a Wednesday call could be relied upon to bring connection to the world.

Recently someone I encountered at physical therapy was expressing anxiety at not knowing what to do for a friend who just lost her husband. Though she was a stranger, I offered up Wednesday calls. It felt good to pass it on and think it might comfort someone else.

So heartfelt thanks many times over to Carson and his lovely bride. But NO, I still refuse to take any beer can collectible magazines!   

"I passed it on, Mr. Jonas. I passed it on."

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