I talk on the phone less and less, and as soon as it rings, I get a little stressed. When I was young, the phone was the main way to keep in touch with friends, and we could talk for hours and call often. At least, as long as it wasn’t a long-distance call.

I remember how to call abroad, you first had to book the call through the Swedish telecom company Televerket and that it could take several minutes before the switchboard operator called you back, and the conversation could finally start.

Calling from Sweden to the U.S. in 1975 apparently cost around 75 SEK per minute in today’s money.

I was a little jealous of friends who had their own phone number or at least a phone in their room. I also remember picking up the receiver to make a call and realizing someone else in the house was already talking. That could easily turn into a minor drama.

When the first cordless phones appeared – wow, it felt almost revolutionary! I bought my first cordless phone in some shady electronics store in Miami around 1982.

Back then, there was something called “the hotline,” an unofficial telephone number without a subscriber that multiple people could call simultaneously to chat about all kinds of things. Sort of like a chat room before the Internet.

The last “regular” phone Charlotte and I bought was from the company Doro, but we disconnected that number over 15 years ago.

Communication has always fascinated me. There was a time when I wrote tons of letters and postcards, and I still have several binders filled with old letters I’ve written and received. Someday “soon,” I plan to go through them all, and I’m sure it’ll bring both laughter and tears.

One highlight when I was young and visiting Grandma Agnes and Grandpa Eskil in Trollhättan was stepping out onto Örtagårdsvägen to check the rattling mailbox that Grandpa had crafted in the smithy behind the house.

It was always exciting, and with great anticipation, I’d lift the lid and peek inside. Sometimes it was just spider webs and frightened silverfish hopping around. But when a long envelope covered with stamps and postmarks was lying there, it felt like Christmas.

I could barely contain myself before getting inside, grabbing Grandpa’s big shiny letter opener, and carefully slicing the envelope’s lid above the blue Par Avion/Airmail sticker.

I’m actually old enough to remember when people still sent and received telegrams. In fact, a few telegrams were read aloud by our toastmaster, Lars Olemyr, at our wedding in 1998.

A little while ago, my iPhone rang. It happens less and less frequently these days, and since the national telecom company has sold my contact information – both personal and for our small business – to various dubious telemarketing companies, I never answer if I don’t recognize the number.

So I let it ring until it stopped and then checked who it was. Since I don’t know anyone from the telecom company Bla, Bla, Bla Communications AB, I added them to my growing list of blocked phone numbers.

But who knows, perhaps in another 20 years I’ll feel so lonely that instead of blocking these persistent salespeople, I’ll actually take the time to listen to their tiresome sales pitches.

The photo is of me at Grandma Agnes and Grandpa Eskil’s house on Örtagårdsvägen 17 in Trollhättan, circa 1972.