Open Writing

As a cub scout in the 1940’s, I passed a badge test in the “Use of the Telephone.’’ though now it seems ludicrous in the retelling. An even more surreal recollection is that those of us who took the test gathered around a public phone booth on a street corner! None of us had telephones in our homes, nor did the Cub Scout leader! I wore the badge on the sleeve of my blue, wool uniform sweater with a sense of pride and superiority.

After World War II ended, the telephone company began offering service again to new subscribers, though there was a waiting list of months in some cases, and only party lines were available; sometimes with as many as four subscribers sharing one line. My parents could not see any utility in being connected to the outside world, and in any case we knew no one we could call, so what was the point.

Ironically, the first job I obtained was with the telephone company, as a trainee in the construction and maintenance of automatic telephone exchanges. We still did not have an instrument at home, but by now I had girls on my mind, and some of their parents had them, so I conducted my love affairs via the ‘phones in the exchanges where I worked. This allowed me to spend as much time burning up the lines as I could get away with, at no cost to anybody but the government. I thought it was a terrific, though unintended job benefit.

By the time I was in my early twenties I was into my first serious romance with a girl who I would later marry. Unfortunately, the object of my affection lived about a hundred miles from me, and my parents were still resisting the march of progress, so my courtship had to be transacted via letters and the public telephones, since by then I was no longer with the telephone company.

The nearest public phone was perhaps a quarter of a mile from my home, which was an easy walk except on dark rainy nights or in the dead of winter. But too often, when I arrived at the kiosk the ‘phone was out of order, necessitating an extended walk of about a mile and a half to the next kiosk. This solution didn’t always work because my intended was living in a residential nursing school and had to stand in line to use the one ‘phone in the hallway of the dormitory.

Once we were married, having our own ‘phone was high on our priority list, despite our impecunious circumstances, but even so it was about two years before we were able to have one installed. This period probably represented the apogee of my affection for telecommunications.

Soon after, I began working as a salesman, spending unpleasant hours on the ‘phone, trying to make appointments with people who really didn’t want to see me. If I was on the receiving end of a call, almost always it was someone with a problem that I had the responsibility to solve. This involved more ‘phone calls to other company locations, and to co-workers who were often unwilling or unable to help me.

As I climbed the corporate ladder the character of my ‘phone calls changed though not for the better. More often than not the caller would be one of my bosses with a task that added to my already heavy workload, or an angry customer who had failed to obtain satisfaction from one of my subordinates. It was in this period that my father died so my sister and I insisted that my mother give in and have a ‘phone installed.

For the rest of my working life, my negative feelings towards Mr. Graham Bell only grew stronger, though the telephone and the telephone service continued to improve. The instruments became more stylish, lighter and smaller; no longer the clumsy, heavy black monsters of my youth and early adulthood.

With the advent of fiber optic cables that brought exponential increases in line capacity, it was now not necessary to book a transatlantic call two days before Christmas, and then deal with the scratchy, echoing transmission quality and cross talk. I could pick up the ‘phone on the day or the moment I chose and connect immediately with my relatives in England, who sounded as though they were in the next room.

When cell (mobile) ‘phones came on the scene, my acceptance level was on a par with my parent’s attitude to telephones forty years before. I knew no one who had one, and had no desire to carry around the two-pound instrument in its leather shoulder bag. Inevitably, cell ‘phones later became smaller and lighter, so eventually I obtained one for my wife as a safety measure for her long, daily drive to and from work.

Progress in cell ‘phone technology since then has not resulted in my heart growing fonder. The current versions are packed with features I have never longed for, and anyway, I wouldn’t understand how to use them. The devices are so small and slick that they fly out of my hands before I can open the flap to answer a call. The one we have currently is covered in miniscule buttons that only a squirrel could operate, and you need a magnifying glass to interpret the icons on them.

On the rare occasions we get a call, the ‘phone is usually buried under the detritus that accumulates in my wife’s handbag, so we never get to it before the message recording feature kicks in. I read recently that future cell ‘phones will be woven into our garments, so in a while I may be faced with the task of taking scissors to the irritating devices, just as now I cut out the irritating labels that are sewn into the neck band of my shirts.

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