We may be the only family left in America without a cell phone, a bit

of a curiosity considering that I embrace electronic communication technology

wholeheartedly.

Sometimes I worry that with everyone but me carrying a cell phone, eventually

the phone company will phase out pay phones. Then how will I check messages

at home?

When we were first married, we didn't even have a telephone. Borrowed

a neighbor's when it was absolutely necessary. Which it seldom was,

now that we were each living with the only other person in the world we

really wanted to talk to. (I said this was when we were first married.)

Before that, our parents' phones were on party lines. For those younger

than ourselves, and that's most of you, a party line is like a series

of extensions, one in each household, and with a little practice, you

could listen in to your neighbors' conversations undetected.

There were eight people on our line, which meant we heard four different

rings. (I don't know why we didn't hear all eight.) Ours was

two medium rings. And, of course, if someone else was using the phone,

no one else on the entire line could call in or receive calls. This required

a degree of cooperation hard to imagine today.

I think we upgraded to a two-party line by the time I got to high school,

about 1950. Must have. How else would I have gotten away with my endless

adolescent phone calls to and from friends?

I saw this story a couple of years ago in the newsletter of the genealogy

web site, RootsWeb, and saved it because it is just too good not to share.

It dates from the same era and illustrates the vast differences in technology

in different parts of the States. I'll paraphrase where I can, but

the quotes are from the original, written about 1984 by a man named Dick

Pence.

Pence was a novice seahand on a cruiser based in the Philadelphia naval

yard in 1950, a kid just out of high school and the plains of South Dakota.

His story tells why he believes he inspired AT&T to upgrade its telephone

technology. Homesick and seasick on shore leave after a two-week training

cruise, he headed for the pay phones lined up on the dock, deposited a

carefully saved nickel, and dialed O. The following, he writes, is a roughly

verbatim account of what took place after the Philadelphia operator answered.

In his best telephone voice, the young sailor said, "I'd like

to place a station-to-station collect call to the Bob Pence residence

in Columbia, South Dakota." The operator was sure she had heard wrong.

"You mean Columbia, South Carolina, don't you?" "No,

I mean Columbia, South Dakota."

Pence had called home once before and knew that one was coming. "Certainly.

What is the number, please?" "They don't have a number,"

he said, now mumbling. "They don't have a number?" the

operator asked, incredulous. "I don't think so." "I

canít complete the call without a number. Do you have it?"

she insisted.

Pence recognized the voice of authority, and could only stammer, "The

only thing I know is... two longs and a short." He remembers hearing

a snort. "Never mind. I'll get the number for you. One moment,

please." There followed a loud click and a long silence.

Philadelphia apparently determined that there was indeed a Columbia, South

Dakota, and what she needed to do to call there. First she dialed an operator

in Cleveland, and asked her to dial one in Chicago. She had Chicago dial

Minneapolis; Minneapolis dialed Sioux City, Iowa. Sioux City got Sioux

Falls, South Dakota, and the operator there dialed Aberdeen, South Dakota.

And at last, Aberdeen dialed the operator in Columbia. Her patience wearing

thin, Philadelphia figured she was back in control when Columbia answered.

"The number for the Bob Pence residence, please," she demanded.

With no hesitation, Columbia responded, "That's two longs and

a short." Philadelphia was taken aback, but only for a moment. "I

have a collect call from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, for anyone at that

number. Would you please ring?" "Theyíre not home,"

said Columbia, again not missing a beat. Philadelphia paused, but decided

not to press the issue.

"There is no one at that number, sir," she said, relaying the

message I'd already heard. "Would you like to try again later?"

Columbia interrupted: "Is that you, Dick?" "Yeah, Margaret.

Where are the folks?" Philadelphia was baffled, but her instincts

told her to look out for the company. "Sir! Madam.... You can't...,"

she sputtered.

Margaret ignored her. "Theyíre up at the school house at the

basketball game. Want me to ring?" Pence knew he was pushing his

luck, and told Margaret not to go to the trouble. "No trouble at

all," said Margaret. "It's halftime."

Philadelphia made one last effort, Pence writes. In her most official

tone, she declared: "But this is a station-to-station collect call!"

"You just never mind, honey," said Columbia, "I'll

just put it on Bob's bill."

Ignoring Philadelphia's protests, Margaret rang the phone at the

school house. "I have a station-to-station collect call for Bob Pence,"

Philadelphia said, knowing at that instant Ma Bell had somehow been had.

"This is he." "Go ahead," whispered an astonished

Philadelphia.

Pence said he was glad he couldn't see her face when he began the

conversation in time-honored Mid-Western fashion: "Hi, Dad, it's

me. How's the weather?" "Jeez," said Philadelphia,

clicking off.

A friend of Pence's who retired from AT&T insists that the company

began to automate its long-distance service the following Monday morning.

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