49

Late that same afternoon, Tom Klugh was in Georgia, getting ready to head out to the local mall and purchase his first cell phone. He finished placing the onions and potatoes into the ground. Showered. Then he headed out the door. Tom had fought the temptation to upgrade to the technical side of life long enough. Terra was gadget-savvy and connected electronically, like most everyone else Tom knew. So he figured the best way to communicate with his only daughter was to give in and buy a cell phone.

When Tom got home, one of his friends called the house. The guy wanted to go out and get something to eat and have a few beers. They’d meet up with additional friends at the bar.

“Why not?” Tom said.

He arrived back home, somewhere near 6:30 P.M., and started fussing with his new phone. Terra was going to be happy about the purchase, Tom knew. The first person he wanted to call on the new phone was the one person he had, essentially, bought it for.

Terra’s number rang several times. Then her voice mail picked up.

By now, it was near seven o’clock. “Hey, sweetie,” Tom said into Terra’s voice mail, “just want to let you know I got a cell phone today with a plan that allows me to call you anytime I want to. I love you!”

Tom would often tell Terra, “You know, you’re my favorite daughter.”

She’d sass back: “But, Dad, I’m your only daughter.”

They’d share the perfect laugh.

When Tom didn’t hear from Terra that night, he went to bed believing that she and Alan had picked up the girls and driven to Marietta. They were probably dog tired. They could all connect the following morning. Maybe even get together.