Picture by Max Latimer |
| |
I’m not sure when the
private Farmington phone system started, but it was
there when I was growing up in the forties and
lasted until about 1960. Our phone, like almost
everyone’s, was a big old rectangular box hanging on
the wall, with a hand crank, ear piece, bells, a
mouthpiece, and a slanted writing surface for making
notes. And a party line.Most everyone seemed to
have two, three or four parties on their lines. We
had eight, and the phone seemed to ring all the
time. We would have to stop whatever we were doing
to listen for our ring, two longs and a short. But
more often it would ring a long and two shorts—not
us. Or three shorts. Or a long, a short and a long.
Occasionally one of the ladies on the line would
hesitate ringing for Central, making it sound like
our ring. Oops. Sorry.
When I was little, the phone was perfect. I would
stand on a kitchen chair, ring Central, and ask her
to get my Aunt Virginia or my Aunt Beverly. I
thought she was the smartest person in town because
she always connected me without asking for the
number, which I couldn't remember anyway. I did have
some trouble when I would ask for my Grandma.
Central never could figure out which grandma, and
would have to ask.
But when I was old enough to date, the phone
system lost most of its appeal. Mom had told me that
whenever the phone would ring, some of the neighbors
would pick up to listen in for entertainment. It was
hard enough to work up the courage to call a girl
for a date, but the thought of the party line
listening in was horrifying. At first I made my
dates in person just to avoid the phone. Then I
started dating out-of-town girls and had to
deal with it.
When I would promise a girl I would call, I would
always warn her that we had a party line. Not that
we were going to talk about anything we would not
say in front of our mothers, who were always hanging
around the phone in the kitchen anyway. But as a
courtesy, sort of like “Our phone is bugged.” Our
phone conversations were stilted, both of us aware
they could be repeated, word for word, from the
pulpit the next Sunday. But we usually managed to
agree on places and times without furnishing too
much gossip. Finally there came a day when we began
to share more intimate conversations.
To avoid amusing the neighbors with sweet talk, I
would clear the line. When my girl answered I would
tell her I would call back some other time, “because
I had heard those nosey biddies pick up.” We would
say goodbye, then I would click the receiver hanger,
and we’d wait. Pretty soon we would hear the clicks
as each of our eavesdroppers would hang up. We would
wait longer, and finally the last of the biddies
would give up with a final click. We would convince
ourselves that we now had a private line, and resume
our conversation. But in the back of my mind, I
always knew one of those old biddies, and Central,
were smarter than us and had stayed on the line for
their evening's entertainment.
