"75, PLEASE?"
When growing up in Barrington, Nova Scotia, we may not have had electricity or indoor plumbing or running water but we had a TELEPHONE. It was black and hung off the wall space between our big kitchen and the living room; it had a short cord and offered little to no privacy when talking.
Our old house was heated by a solitary wood stove in the kitchen, so it was situated near a warm place.
One had to be tall enough to crank the handle of the phone to place a call. I was not tall so I would first have to pull over my little red stool to stand on. It didn't matter if I knew the phone number or not because the Operator would be willing to put the call through to whomever.
I'd crank the handle, a voice would say "Operator", and I would say "Gramma Watson, please". I really loved talking on the telephone but didn't know who else to call.
When I got older, I'd ask for "number 64, please?" That was my cousin's number; I also knew Dr. Wilson's number was "69". Of course, our's was 75.
We had a private line which cost a bit more but my father was a very private man and didn't want people listening in on our business.
When we wanted to know where the police or firetrucks were going, all we had to do was call the Operator. When our phone rang, we'd all rush to be the first to answer it. If it was for one self, we each felt so important.
When the dial system was installed, it seemed strange to not have to go through the Operator and wasn't nearly as much fun. Plus, one had to memorize 7 digits for each phone number, instead of just 2.
Now, in the year 2008, one knows who is calling before they pick it up and if they choose not to, an answering machine will take the message. One can carry a cellular telephone and receive and place calls all over the world at anytime; take photos, send text messages, etc.
"75, please?"
When growing up in Barrington, Nova Scotia, we may not have had electricity or indoor plumbing or running water but we had a TELEPHONE. It was black and hung off the wall space between our big kitchen and the living room; it had a short cord and offered little to no privacy when talking.
Our old house was heated by a solitary wood stove in the kitchen, so it was situated near a warm place.
One had to be tall enough to crank the handle of the phone to place a call. I was not tall so I would first have to pull over my little red stool to stand on. It didn't matter if I knew the phone number or not because the Operator would be willing to put the call through to whomever.
I'd crank the handle, a voice would say "Operator", and I would say "Gramma Watson, please". I really loved talking on the telephone but didn't know who else to call.
When I got older, I'd ask for "number 64, please?" That was my cousin's number; I also knew Dr. Wilson's number was "69". Of course, our's was 75.
We had a private line which cost a bit more but my father was a very private man and didn't want people listening in on our business.
When we wanted to know where the police or firetrucks were going, all we had to do was call the Operator. When our phone rang, we'd all rush to be the first to answer it. If it was for one self, we each felt so important.
When the dial system was installed, it seemed strange to not have to go through the Operator and wasn't nearly as much fun. Plus, one had to memorize 7 digits for each phone number, instead of just 2.
Now, in the year 2008, one knows who is calling before they pick it up and if they choose not to, an answering machine will take the message. One can carry a cellular telephone and receive and place calls all over the world at anytime; take photos, send text messages, etc.
"75, please?"
No comments:
Post a Comment