Summer in a Quonset Part Eight

All the amenities of home. In a shed!

As the summer progressed . . .

Our five-year-old, Anita had almost free run of the 'house' and she had learned to dial the telephone.

She couldn't read the numbers but she could count, and, beginning at one end, she could count the holes and dial the number.

I didn't know she could do this and I very innocently rattled off the number of a girl friend upon her request, thinking, "No harm! She couldn't dial it anyway!"

The next thing I knew, she was talking to her friend.

"We are going to visit Mortons this afternoon. You know Mortons. MORTONS! (Very indignantly.) "Mortons! Mortons!" And then in exasperation spelling it out . . . "T-I-T-T, Mortons!"

Well, I discovered she could count, but she couldn't spell. Yet!

She appointed herself Chief - in charge of almost anything - and one was Telephone Answering Service.

When she first appointed herself to this assignment, we were more than a little dubious about her ability to handle the clients. But we didn't want to come right out and tell her that we thought she might not be capable of handling the job - so when the telephone rang, we just tried to get to the phone first.

It turned out to be a race sometimes and we knew that she was beginning to get the message but she wasn't about to give up, either!

So, after a brief counsel, we decided to let her take the calls. Only we would have to give her more advice.

For one thing, there would have to be a little more consideration for the customer.

The Office Secretary would have to change her answering procedure from 'Hello. My Daddy is not home. Goodbye.' to 'Hello, Dr. Stringam's office. He is not here at the moment, but he will be in at such-and-such a time. Can I take a message?'

Then, since she couldn't write, it was difficult to keep everything stuck together right and some of the messages came out mighty strange . . .

"The man said . . ."

"What man?"

"I don't know his name, but he said his cow had pushed herself inside out and would Dr. Stringam please come and push her in immediately!"

We had a man out there somewhere with an emergency! He would have to call back and, hopefully, I could reach the phone first!

Or another time . . .

"A man called."

"Did you get his name?"

"I forgot his name, but his cow is having a calf and he wants Daddy to come right away."

Fortunately, with that one, we found out later that his cow had managed to get into the granary and engorged herself with grain. The 'calving' was a case of bloat!

But we had more counseling with the Answering Service.

The result?

"Hello. Dr. Stringam's shed. He is not here right now, but his mother is! Here she comes now!"

Generally, our customers were very patient with Anita and would exchange a little conversation with her and then ask for me.

Or if I wasn't immediately available, they would leave a number to call. (Though this, too presented a bit of a problem sometimes because the number wouldn't come out exactly right.)

With all of this, it was probably a miracle, but very seldom did a client become irate.

The Last Fun Phone Call

Stringam Ranch - everything . . . except a phone

“I want to talk to Jody.”

“Number, please.”

“Six.”

Electric ringing.

“Hello?”

“May I talk to Jody?”

“Yes, one moment.”

“Hello?”

“Jody! We got our phone!”

It was the most exciting day of my life.

The Stringams. That weird family who lived at the back of beyond, had joined the twentieth century. The modern world had finally found its way to our door.

But therein lies a story.

The Stringam ranch was twenty miles from the bustling metropolis of Milk River (pop. 499). The phone lines went as far as Nine Mile Corner, a bend in the road situated, interestingly enough, just nine miles from the ranch buildings.

The phone company refused, uncategorically, to take the phone lines any further. Why would people living that far from civilization need the convenience of modern communication?

Why indeed.

But Dad wanted a phone.

As the only veterinarian in the area, he needed a phone.

Dad was determined to have a phone.

Finally, he bought all of the poles and cable to run his own phone line.

He and the hired men spent several weeks installing said poles and cable.

Voila!

The magical day dawned.

The phone company unbent enough to hook up our line to theirs. (And then proceeded to run many, many lines off of it, but that is another story.)

The family gathered around the large, wooden box.

It shrilled. Twice.

Two longs.

We stared at it.

Then looked at each other.

We had arrived.

From that moment on, the peace of the Stringam home was often shattered by the shrilling of the magical box in the hallway.

And the pounding of numerous feet as various denizens of the house sprinted to answer.

It was a whole new, and very exciting, experience.

Followed, soon after, by the discovery that, if one was careful, one could gently lift the receiver and . . . wonder of wonders . . . listen in on other conversations on the 'party' line that had nothing to do with you.

I'm sure I don't need to tell you why it was called a 'party' line.

My sister and I became the masters of it . . .

“Well, I'm sure she meant well. But I can tell you that Gloria wasn't very flattered.”

“Well, I can imagine. Poor Gloria!”

“Yes. I mean, I can only guess, but I would well imagine that being told that one was as big as a whale, albeit a pretty whale, wouldn't go over too well.”

“Well, I wish I'd been there. I would have given her a piece of my mind!”

“Well, Dorothy brought a yellow jellied salad with bananas in it that was just divine. I got her recipe!”

“That reminds me. I wanted to get Dorothy's recipe for her devil's food cake.”

“Oh, I have it, just wait a moment.”

“Ladies?”

“Umm, yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I really need to use the 'phone.”

“Oh, sorry, Hank. Problems?”

“Yeah. I need to talk to Joe at the feed store.”

“Go right ahead. Grace? I'll get that recipe and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Mabel.”

This was fun!

Another conversation . . .

“Well, she was out half the night!”

“No!”

“Yes! Until midnight! And when she got home, Papa could smell . . . liquor on her breath!”

A sucked in breath. “Oh! What did he do?”

“Well, he wasn't happy, I can tell you! She's grounded for a month!”

“A month!?”

“Yes! And that includes prom and everything.”

“She might as well die right now!”

“Exactly!”

And another . . .

“Well, Doc, my poop looks like . . .”

We ended that conversation before it was begun.

And . . .

“Okay, don't spread it around . . . yet . . . but the Larsons are going to be away next weekend.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Jeff says his folks should leave about 6.”

“So what time does the party start?”

“Well, he has to do chores and tidy up the dishes, so 8:00 should about do it. He will beep the phone line twice when he's ready.”

“We'll be waiting.”

Finally . . .

“You have to be careful what you say on this line. Uncle Bob may be listening in.”

“I am not!”

It was the most fun we had ever had.

Until we were introduced to . . .

“Hello?”

“Is your 'fridge running?”

“Just a moment, I'll check.”

A pause.

Then, “Yes. Yes it is.”

“Well, you'd better go catch it!”

Ah. the memories.

I don't remember the last conversation I had on the old party line.

I should.

Because now, phone lines are private.

And boring.