Three Magical Minutes for a Dime

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In a recent men's group, I heard about a Japanese farmer who bought an old London telephone booth and placed it in one of his open fields. It became an interesting addition to the landscape and a popular destination for people to visit in order to make imaginary calls.

I love this story for its joyful juxtaposition of an iconic object from a Western World city finding its way into an Eastern World countryside. Also, it reminds me of a long-ago time when phone booths were plentiful in train stations, coffee shops, bars and on busy street corners. Any place where Clark Kent might need to change into Superman.

With these past times in mind, what if a three-minute call in this booth cost a dime like it did in the mid-20th Century? Now that would really be magical because I can't buy anything these days for just a dime.

When the men in my group talked about who they would call, they mostly mentioned deceased loved ones -- grandparents, parents, friends and lovers. All revealed heart-felt longings to reconnect with those who were significant in their lives. I chose differently. Here's my story.

When I park my car on the side of a winding country road, I see the red phone booth in the middle of a field of multi-colored wildflowers. The farmer planted no crops here, and I imagine he simply allowed God to grow His or Her own. I'm lucky there are only a dozen people waiting in line for their turn in the booth. I heard there are much longer lines on weekends. Today, the gathering is comprised of men and women in their elder years. Maybe the young folks are home, glued to their cell phones. I walk across the field and take my place at the back of the queue. I joke with short, wrinkled man in front of me, telling him at least he's no longer the last in line; however, he either doesn't want to talk with me or doesn't speak English. From further down the line, I hear many languages spoken. I suppose seeking connection is universal, especially in this era of isolation and mistrust.

I watch people as they prepare to enter the booth. Most look nervous. Some move their lips, perhaps praying or practicing what they will say or ask. I try to stay open to express whatever pops into my brain while in the booth. When I finally reach the front of the line, I pay attention to the short, old man inside the booth. He listens more than he speaks. When he exits, tears slip down from his shining eyes toward his tender smile. He nods at me, either acknowledging it's now my turn or recognizing I'll be a fellow traveler in this magical world.

I enter the telephone booth and slide my dime into the coin slot. An operator says, "To whom would you like to speak?"

"Can I speak to my future self sometime shortly before dying?"

"Of course. Anything's possible. Please hold the line."

Following a brief silence, I hear the sound of a connection being made, and a voice says, "What a pleasant surprise! How are things in 2026?" The voice is familiar, yet tired and weak.

I reply, "Everything's crazy, like the world may end due to hate, greed and incompetence."

"Spoiler alert. It doesn't end. How are you holding up?

"I've been better and been worse. You probably remember the hard times."

"Sure do, can't forget them even though I've tried." A bout of coughing shows this may be a hard time, too. "Why are you calling today?"

"There's so much uncertainty now for me, probably everyone. I figured you survived it somehow."

"What do you need to know?"

"In the end, has our life been worth living?"

I hear laughter and a few more coughs. "Every life is worth living because where there's life, there's the potential to love and be loved."

"But what about regrets?"

"Comes with the territory. I wonder about people who say they have no regrets. Maybe they aren't paying attention. In our life, there are regrets about what we did and many more about what we didn't do, but beating ourselves up about it only hurts more. It's the story of two arrows. Life is difficult. At times, it wounds us with the first arrow. All too often, we blame ourselves for the injury and thus shoot ourselves with the second arrow, causing guilt, shame, and despair. We can't control the first arrow, yet we need to do our best to limit the damage from the second one."

"Sounds like it's my inner critic who shoots the second arrow. How do you get rid of him?"

"I wanted to silence that damn voice until I realized he's always been a part of me and will always be. The best I could do was to add other voices, which are more compassionate and hopeful."

After taking a moment to savor this wisdom, I ask, "If you had the opportunity to do some things differently, what would you do?"

"Tell more people how important they are to me. Eat more peach cobbler. Spend more time lying in the grass to watch puffy, white clouds float through a blue sky. And keep my old Grateful Dead t-shirts. They would be a big hit with my hospice buddies here."

The stopwatch on my cell phone shows the three minutes are almost gone. I quickly ask, "How does our story end?"

"I'm not quite at the finish line, but I think the final lesson is the one we've had to learn over and over again -- how to let go." Then, I lose the connection.

If you entered the magical phone booth, who would you call? What would you ask? How might the answers change your life?