It's been over seven years now, and I sure miss it.
Usually around 9:30 or so, the phone would ring. I would answer the phone and the conversation would go something like this:
"Might Mr. Mark Edward Heuring be available?"
"Hi, Mom. How are you this morning?"
From there, you never quite knew where the conversation would go. But it would happen, pretty much like clockwork. I would usually get the first call because others were enforcing the double-digit rule; that is, no phone calls before 10 a.m. This was a wise rule of course. For more than a few siblings I know, brains and bodies needed recovery time from the previous night's festivities. It was always difficult to talk to Mom if you were hung over. I remember trying more than a few times and the results were often bordering on the surreal. The only wakeup calls that were less welcome where when the woodpile beckoned on Railroad Street and Dad would go all Doctor Zhivago on us.
Funny thing is, I'd love to take a call from Mom. And I'd even be willing to face the woodpile again. I bet we all would.