My dad’s family got their first telephone in 1931, when he was five years old. You cranked the handle to dial and spoke into a mouthpiece connected to the wall mount. Everyone in his rural community had a party line, which meant most neighbors listened in. This is not unlike today when you can sit on a city bus or even in a public restroom and hear at least half of a phone conversation – not by choice.

I buy Dad his first smart phone after I realize his almost 92-year-old fingers can no longer maneuver his tiny Trac Phone buttons. I set up the tiles on his new one so all he has to do is poke one of his eight kid’s faces to get them on the line.

Each day when I visit, he has questions. “How do I call someone who isn’t in my phone?” “How does my answering machine work?” This Saturday afternoon when I drive up, he’s on his front porch sipping a Mist and Mist: Canadian Mist doused in Sierra Mist.

As soon as I sit down, he pulls his new cell out of his robe. He lives alone, and my siblings and I have convinced him to carry a telephone at all times, an illusion that if we can keep him tethered, he’s safe. Crumpled tissue, this morning’s breakfast napkin (which is also last night’s supper napkin), or a ballpoint pen might appear when he reaches his mitt of a hand inside to gather his phone.

“You call this progress?!” Dad said back then. He meant that it was more difficult to dial a 10-digit number in 2001 than it was on his first telephone 70 years earlier.

He says, “Show me again how to make a call.” I swipe a few screens.

He dials a number. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Calling myself.” I don’t have it in me to explain to a nonagenarian that you can’t call your own cell number from your own cell phone. I let him dial. I hear a young woman’s voice. I say, “Wrong number. Hang up.”

I realize he doesn’t know how. “This red phone symbol means end the call,” I say. I tap it.

He tries to call again. In this narcissistic age of selfies, why not call yourself? “Schmuck,” he says. “What’s my number?”

I shrug. The only cell number I know by heart is my husband’s, though Dad’s landline is one I will likely remember until I die. It’s the first number I learned in kindergarten, back when we needed only the last four digits to call locally: 4882. When I was in high school, we went with the last number of the prefix, then in college all three prefix numbers: 723-4882. Eventually everyone needed the area code.

“You call this progress?!” Dad said back then. He meant that it was more difficult to dial a 10-digit number in 2001 than it was on his first telephone 70 years earlier.

I show him again how to check his text messages. He can’t quite get used to swiping the screen rather than pushing buttons. Finally, he licks his crooked forefinger and swipes, as if he’s turning a page in a 1973 phonebook. I stifle my laughter, but his approach works just fine.

“Can I hear my answering machine?” he asks. I call his phone from mine so he can hear his voice mail prompt. I watch him listen to me tell his callers, “This is Joe See; leave a message.” I let it record us talking.

Advancements like texting and email mean no paper letters rediscovered years from now in a bottom drawer. Instead, we treasure voice mails, perhaps from that dead friend singing happy birthday or a father learning how to use his cell phone.

Dad listens to his brand-new recording and smiles at the two of us, captured unbeknownst to him.

Two minutes earlier I asked him, “Do you want to change the prompt so it’s your voice? We can record you right now.”

“Too much work,” he says.