Herald - The Telephone

HERALD - THE TELEPHONE

The light reflected off my shiny black surface for the first time in years.

“Would you look at this relic” a voice whispered as I was lifted out of the box. It felt good to have fresh air surrounding my Bakelite base instead of being crammed in that stuffy box with those … those household rejects. That hand crank egg beater almost scratched my surface.

I heard a ringing that sounded like me but was coming from a somewhat flat rectangle sliding out of a back pocket. The person put it up to his ear; how strange.

“Hello” he said just like my people had done when I was a part of a family. But we certainly were not in a house. There was no way he could have been talking to someone in a different location - was no cord attached to a wall … and there was no handset - just that flat device on the side of his head. He was talking as if there was a listener so how was communication taking place I wondered.

“Yeah I’m at the auction place now. Today’s the day Aunt Amy’s stuff is being sold.” There was a pause. “Yeah well, she was actually my dad’s aunt.”

“You won’t believe what I’ve just found. Here I’ll send you a picture” said the voice. I was nearly blinded by the flash but could see he’d used the same slim rectangle to take this picture. Now he was tapping his fingers on it. Now back to the ear.

“It’s in fabulous condition, just like the one Great Granny had and get this it even has been rewired with a wall adapter. We can probably plug it into that landline that we never use.”

He was running his fingers around my plastic dial then twirling my curly cord as so many before him had done. Some found it soothing like worry beads while others displayed their anxiety by stretching me to the limit.

“Of course, I’m going to bid on it but it’s part of a boxed lot, so I’ll have to take all the rest of the shit that comes with it.” Ahh such is life I’d learned. Then the rectangle went into the back pocket, and I was gently placed at the bottom of the box as if this person did not want anyone else to see me.

I was one of the first Western Electric Model 500 – black telephones to come off the assembly line. I was packed carefully into a box along with others like me not stuffed with kitchen leftovers unwrapped like I was now. I still recall the excitement in the air – we were the greatest thing since sliced bread – whatever that meant.

I knew the story of the funeral parlour owner Almon B. Strowger getting cheated out of customers when the wife of the only other undertaker in Kansas worked at the switchboard and directed all calls for funeral services to her husband. That prompted Mr. Strowger to design a pulse system that could connect people without going through a switchboard. Cutting edge stuff. And I’m sure there were more than a few “switchboard” operators who were opposed to losing their source of gossip.

Just as the industrial revolution changed the world in the 1900’s so too the telephone changed how people worked and communicated in the 20^th century. But as with all things technical there were the naysayers. “We will lose the art of conversation when we are not face to face.” “How will know if someone is being truthful if we canna look him in the eye?” Ah, over the years I heard many a discourse on the fear of change.

While Mr. S. was responsible for my inner working to make connections with others it was Henry Dreyfuss I will thank for my sexy good looks. Daresay at the time my Model 500 was praised as a work of art. The dial markings on the outside of the plastic wheel, brilliant – much easier to read. The wee bit bigger holes for fatter fingers to fit was much better than the old candlestick phone model. And what genius in having the ear and mouthpiece together in one handset. I do know from experience some of my people really appreciated the weight of that handset when there was a need to slam it down thus ending a conversation that was not getting the satisfaction one felt was deserving. Thank goodness my base and cradle were strong for I was slammed down many times.

I remember my very first call. It was made by Laura Simpson who ran her finger nervously around my dial. She had to try twice because her trembling digit slipped out of the hole, and she got the wrong number. Laura told her mother she was having a baby. I was honoured to herald such good news, but the screams of joy almost blew out my ear piece. Rob Simpson’s call to his mother on the other hand was definitely not as enthusiastic.

“Well Bobby” she started in a tone I would become familiar with over the years. She was also the only one who ever called him ‘Bobby’. “This is certainly too soon. You just got married 2 months ago.” Rob was very vague about the due date. The call was very short.

I held a place of honour on a beautiful mahogany 1940’s Gossip Bench with an upholstered burgundy seat. To the left when sitting was a two-foot wooden table where I would reside for the next 14 years. I particularly liked the ladder-back chair with its wide top rail, detailed cross rail, and three vertical splats. It was a comfortable sit for those long conversations where all the problems of each household members’ world were solved.

Under the table was a shelf for the telephone book, a note pad, a pencil and occasionally a nail file. That disappeared the day Laura caught Amy proudly carving her name onto the table top. The letters were perfectly done. Poor Laura didn’t know whether to cry or praise her girl’s first written word so, she did both. I sat on the floor for a few days while Rob did something magical and returned the bench without the carving; though on a sunny day when the beams through the window were just right you could still make out the A – M – Y.

The bench sat in the large hallway near the front door, close to the living room. A great spot for access but when that door opened in the winter it was some cold. That didn’t happen often as family and close friends always used the back door. Except on special occasions. The first time I got that frigid blast was when Rob and Laura brought Amanda home from the hospital in the winter of 1950.

For fourteen years I went from Amanda covering me with stickiness trying to dial Grandma’s house to Robbie (who arrived the following year) disconnecting my wires a few times to teenagers spending long hours talking to friends or fighting over who got to me first. Since I was hardwired into the baseboard this is where all conversations took place although many creative ways to get some privacy were tried over the years. I was just as surprised as Amy that my cord could stretch all the way into the closet.

Then one day I was disconnected and moved to the guest bedroom. A wall mounted red push-button phone replaced me. A rather garish ugly thing if you ask me. Something called a wall jack was now on the baseboard and these new models could be plugged into them. But even more amazing was more than one would be installed. Rob figured out how to change my wiring to a plug, so a jack was put into the guest bedroom where I became Laura’s private “office” telephone privy to all her secrets. She told her mother how angry she was at Rob for buying that pink princess phone for Amy. Seemed the girl never came out of her room anymore.

As the years went by I heard excitement over the surprise graduation parties for both children and even one for Rob. Apparently he was now a Master of something. I shared the anxiety of the perfect wedding plans, the hopefulness when the invitation for Christmas was extended to Rob’s mother and new husband. I knew from the call Laura made to her mother that visit did go better than expected. The family was reunited. Oh, and I revelled in the joy in Laura’s voice when the baby showers started. There were five of those over the years and every one of them loved my dial.

The calls about the funeral arrangements for both sets grandparents were all made at various times by Laura in the quiet of the guest room. I had come to know her well and could hear her hold back the strong emotions for most of the relatives and friends. But when she placed the call to her sister to confirm their mother’s service she lost all control. After she dried me off the call to her brother ended up much the same.

Laura and Rob had been gone for a while. I remember making the reservations and organizing the trip. I was missing her. To my surprise when the door finally opened it was Amy. Amy using Laura’s phone to make funeral announcements for Laura and Rob.

“There’s been an accident, no we don’t have all the details yet. For sure I’ll let you know.” Just like her mother that one. She even dried me with the same doily her mom had used.

A few weeks later I was being put into a box with other random household items. I have no idea how long I languished there with only my memories. But now my box was being moved and it felt like I was being placed on a table. I heard a lot of talking and garbled numbers.

“SOLD for $4.50 to number 145. My box was now being opened by the same person who’d tucked me gently in the bottom of the box. He was moving aside the egg beater and other junk. He really seemed happy to see me. The ride to my new home was shared with other ‘antiques’ I heard them called but I seemed to remember a similar table in my former residence. In fact, …

I knew it! As my new person was unpacking us I caught a glimpse of sunlight on the table top of the Gossip Bench and there they was the faint outline of the A – M – Y. I was home.

“Robert, I really think the telephone table should go in the guest room don’t you?”

I watched him as he kissed her on the mouth and said, “Gossip Bench sounds so much better don’t you think?” He had that Simpson teasing twinkle in his eye. “But you’re right and there is a landline connection. Who gets the honour of being your first call?”

I was overjoyed when I heard her reply.

“Well, I’m thinking we should share our good news with my mother” she patted her barely noticeable baby bump.”