Telephones

 “Operator, will you help me place this call. . . . “ My country grandparents’ long wooden crank telephone was affixed to the wall in the hall off the kitchen. My grandmother would ring to let the operator know that she wished to place a call. A party line served the local community, which meant that the operator could listen to the conversation as could any other nosey party line member. When visiting, even my brother and I would pick up the phone to hear people talking, giggling away until an adult caught us or we got bored with the conversation and hung up.

We lived in a city big enough to support individual private lines. Each year we would receive a free telephone book that listed the name, address and telephone number of just about everyone who owned a telephone. Today telephone books are history as is a busy line, 411 for information, 0 for operator and collect calls. Growing up, these features were ordinary, as were station to station and person to person calls. Also ordinary were the pranks that we kids could play: “hello, do you have Prince Edward in a can? You do? Then let him out”. 

Speaking of arcane, we owned a plain obsidian Blakelite rotary dial telephone that was almost impossible to break. Ours sat on a small wall table in the hallway and was only used to make local calls. Long distance calls were ridiculously expensive and were made only rarely. After returning home from family visits, dad would place a person to person call to himself to let our family members know that we had arrived home safely. In hindsight every switchboard operator was kind enough to allow people to continue with the ruse. 

In the early 60s there was a noir TV show entitled Richard Diamond; a private eye who counted on his sultry voiced answering service operator during emergencies to save him. We never saw Sam’s face, only the back of Mary Tyler Moore’s head and her very long and shapely legs. The switchboard operator’s role appeared so vital that I wanted to be an answering service operator when I grew up. Good thing that romance ended with the TV show since the last cord switchboard closed in 1983.

As a teenager, I would wait by the phone for ‘him’ to call, or calling a girlfriend only to be told that we could not talk for long because ‘he’ was supposed to call her. We couldn’t tie up the line. Vicki Carr singing “Let It Be Him” was meant for all lovelorn young ladies. Everything required so much more time and patience, especially since young boys did not appear to be as talkative as girls. That is undoubtedly why the phone company came out with ‘princess’ telephones and not ‘prince’ telephones. 

Somewhere during the 80s, answering machines came into vogue and became extremely popular. It was so exciting to come home to a blinking light. The days of waiting by the phone were over but the disappointment was still as great when the machine reported “no messages”. 

While living in Europe, I was surprised to learn that all public telephones required a token instead of directly depositing coins. I could buy a handful of tokens and use them as needed. It was a very handy novelty as far as I was concerned. I was never interested in the logic behind tokens as opposed to coins so I never asked; now I wonder. 

Agent Smart clearly was ahead of his time with his shoe phone and his car phone. Cell phones arrived with their instant gratification, thereby removing the last remnants of romance and mystery from telephone conversations. I remember a young man saying that he was not keen on cell phones because his girlfriend called him frequently, which he liked, but he was disappointed too, in their constant communications. He said “It doesn’t give me a chance to miss her.” He longed for the excitement of meeting and catching up because they hadn’t spoken for a day or two. I understood; his remark was sweet and poignant.

Has the technology for anything in our everyday lives changed as much as telephones. Even now, I can pull a coat out of the closet and know its age by the size of the inside cell phone pocket. 

Most Embarrassing Career Moment

 Like everyone, I’ve experienced many embarrassing moments in my life, some big, some small: the run in my pantyhose, the goop that I sat on that ruined a dress, the wrong word said at the wrong time (a lot of those), the mistaken turn onto a one way street, the late date, the forgotten date, etc. 

However, one of the most embarrassing moments of my entire career occurred during the first big case to which I was assigned. I was so thrilled and so terrified. The case was the biggest in the office and required maintaining a discovery calendar, coordinating with co-counsel, preparing and arranging subpoena services with state sheriff offices, informing local counsel, various court reporters and reserving hotel conference rooms for depositions, among other duties.

One day, though, a very rushed attorney, while waiting for his plane, called and asked that I notice the deposition of Van Buren for the following month. Of course, I said, equally rushed; I had another attorney standing in my office, spewing forth even more urgent instructions. In short time, I duly prepared the deposition notice of Martin Van Buren. 

A few days later, I received a phone call from one of our more caustic co-counsel, calling to say that he and other members of the steering committee oftentimes remarked on my superior abilities to keep all aspects of the discovery process organized and commending my extraordinary skills (wow, coming from this guy, particularly known for his acerbic wit, this was a huge compliment; I was practically dancing in my seat) and he was most impressed with my superior subpoena powers that could raise the dead (what? wait, what?). He had a couple of cases where this ability would come in very handy and he would greatly appreciate it if I could send him the relevant citations. (Oh dear, oh dear, what had I done?) He finished by barking confidently that the eighth president of the United States would undoubtedly not present himself for this seance, and then unceremoniously hung up. 

The color did not just drain my face, it left my entire body. I almost fainted, unable to breathe. Horrified, utterly horrified, I sat frozen to my chair. After my heart finished racing and my initial muzziness subsided, I remembered one of the first rules of law, that almost anything can be fixed once it is realized. Plus, once I told my problem to someone more senior, it became that person’s problem. 

I sprinted down the hall to talk with the most junior associate to explain my predicament — out of office. I ran to the next senior associate, who likewise was out of office. I headed upstairs to the junior partner. Again, no one home. I was left with only one option — the senior partner on the case. Unfortunately, I had never met the man. I felt like Dorothy about to confront the Great Wizard. My fear was palpable.

To make matters even worse, his secretary was a mean spirited, spiteful old battle-ax who had worked as his gatekeeper for more than twenty years and hadn’t any problem sneering at me while cackling her “no!” at my request for an audience. She made it clear that he was a very important senior partner who had no time for the likes of a mere paralegal such as myself.

Dispirited, but wily, I noticed that it was nearing the noon hour and everyone knew that she left her desk 15 minutes before her appointed lunch hour to visit the ladies room and primp so that she would be ready when her scheduled lunch hour officially began. I hovered out of her range of vision and when she left her desk I sprang, knocking on his nearly closed door and boldly marching into his office. 

He looked somewhat surprised but said nothing when I walked up to his desk and quickly introduced myself, explaining, in a high pitched, rapid paced monologue, what I had done to find myself in front of him. I did not stop talking until I completed the entire sordid story, including the co-counsel’s humiliating phone call and my stealthy circumvention around his secretary. After I was done, he sat quietly for a moment, staring at my sorrowful face while my entire, short, life flashed before me. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head and I watched, wide eyed and silent, as his entire body rocked with laughter. After he’d calmed, he remarked on the courage that it must have taken to come to him. I thanked him, somewhat disconcerted, hoping that my career was not about to come to an end . . . maybe. He then explained how to prepare an amended notice for the deposition of Robert (not Martin) Van Buren and shooed me out of his office before his secretary returned. He confessed that he was as afraid of her as I was.

In later years I came to know him as a kind and patient man, oftentimes with a twinkle in his eyes. And somewhere along the way, I learned that he had served in the United States Army Air Corps during WWII and had spent years as a prisoner of war at Stalag Luft III. My best guess is that an inane event (like noticing the deposition of a dead president) was an amusing diversion compared to his past life experiences. 

As I became more experienced in my career, I was approached by a local university to teach, pro tem, paralegal discovery procedures. In class, I was very clear that attention to detail was first and foremost in this profession and used the above story as a prime example of what not to do, anytime, anywhere, ever. 

Trains

 Occasionally, summer would find us boarding a train to visit with relatives in far flung places. Trains provided the biggest dose of sensory overload that my brothers and I had ever experienced. We were starstruck; the giant black steel engine revving and raring to go, the accompanying smoke billowing from seemingly everywhere, the bells, the toot toots, the conductor barking instructions; so much to see and hear. Our little brains could not absorb it all fast enough. 

And those were the days of dressing up for travel. Mom wore one of her best outfits, making all her little clucking noises about staying neat and clean while simultaneously trying to corral my older brother and me. Dad, in his blue serge suit, held my baby brother in his arms, hoping the kid wouldn’t throw up on his jacket. Safely ensconced in our seats my brother and I would then scrimmage for the window seat. 

At the time, we were oblivious to the subtle niceties of train travel. Our Pullman seats were firmly cushioned and clean with removable headrest covers. The windows were clear and bright with pull down shades. None of that mattered to us. We were too taken with watching the baggage cart handlers and the people rushing around to find their correct car. The constant movement of people and carts and luggage was enthralling. We heard the conductor call “all aboard”. When the train finally began moving we were so excited we could barely squeak with delight, much less talk.

Once the train was rolling, a redcap walked by to ask our parents if their needs were being met. Shortly afterwards, a conductor came by and punched their tickets. We were so taken with the outdoor moving landscape and the indoor human landscape our little eyeballs didn’t know which way to turn. In due course, though, the steady clack clack clack rhythm and the train’s side to side movements caused us to fall asleep, a much hoped for eventuality by our parents. Hours later, upon arrival, we were delighted and disappointed at the same time. We had arrived at our destination but what had we missed while we slept, we wondered. 

After my school years were over, I hopped a plane to Italy and, after visiting with relatives in Rome, I purchased my first Euro rail pass to visit other countries. To my surprise, European train interiors were designed differently. There was no center aisle, no open seating. Instead, the main corridor was located at one side of the train, with separate compartments that seated six. Sliding glass doors allowed only nominal privacy since anyone could park themselves in an empty seat. Luggage was placed in the overhead rack. The compartments were comfortable but not plush. Back then, trains stopped more frequently. Border crossings meant more officials coming by and checking papers and passports. 

This was the beginning of my ‘grown up’ journey into adulthood. As the year went by and I became more used to the mores of European travel, admittedly the initial thrill of train travel did diminish but I always enjoyed the company of new friends that I made along the way. Oftentimes we exchanged home addresses and the heck of it is that some of those people remain my friends to this day. I remember returning to America with only one regret, but I still live in hope that one day the Venice Simplon Orient Express will count me as one of its customers.