The Big Black Phone

It was black and heavy, especially for a 7-year-old child, and yet, it held a certain fascination for me. It sat in its own little niche at the bottom of the stairs, and maybe it was that little arched cubicle that attracted my attention. The first time I saw it, I was in the midst of taking in a new landscape, my mind focused on something familiar in an unfamiliar environment.

My father had brought us to this new place in Toledo, Ohio, and it was far away from the family we were used to seeing frequently. We had arrived the day before, flying into this unfamiliar city. It was the first time any of us, including my mother, had  been on a plane. I was the oldest, followed by my sister, who was four, and my baby brother, a very rambunctious 1-year-old. My mother was exhausted from both the flight and my brother! My father was showing her around our new home, but as I think back, Mother probably wanted a hot bath and a soft bed in lieu of this grand tour. I remember she didn't like the wallpaper in the kitchen. I didn't care about anything in the house except for the phone in the special cubbyhole.

We settled into our new home, but not easily. All of us, including my parents, had been born in the Batavia, a little town in upstate New York. Our grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins, the lifeblood of an Italian family, all remained behind in this little hamlet we called home. It was a difficult adjustment, especially for my mother. She was the first in her extended family to "leave home", as her move to Ohio was referred to by her siblings. I can't imagine what it was like for her to not only be far away from family, but to also put on a brave front for her children.

Sadly, the heavy black phone in it's special spot was not the link to our hometown it would have been today. In the 1950's, long distance was expensive and saved only for special occasions, like holidays and birthdays. When a long-distance call was placed, we were all acutely aware of time and cost, so conversations (if you could call them that) were kept short. We were allowed to say a quick "Happy Birthday" or "Merry Christmas" before the receiver was passed to the next person in line. This was a big challenge in a large family!

Instead of lengthy chats on the phone, we would exchange letters with our faraway family. These were always a source of excitement when they arrived. This was how my aunts would pass on family news and keep us up to date with these eagerly-awaited missives. I still remember the letter one of my aunts sent when she discovered she was pregnant after many years of trying. Her husband was my mother's youngest brother, and everyone was ecstatic about the news. It seems strange today to write such important news in a letter! And yet, that was how information was conveyed. No one picked up a telephone frivolously! There had to be a very good reason to use that black instrument and spend the money attached to using it! And so, I grew up reading family news through the letters written by my aunts. It meant that I could read the words over and over, savoring the tether to my family those letters created.

The black phone in the special niche did hold a measure of entertainment in our early days in our house - a party line! My sister and I would gingerly pick up the muscled arm of the phone, hold our breath, and listen to conversations on the party line. It was a delicious bit of mischief, and our hearts would beat when we heard the angry admonition "I'm using the line; get the hell off!" We'd slam down the receiver and race to our room, sure the "party line police" were on their way!  It was a little disappointing when we finally got a private line and could no longer snooop on our neighbors!

The years passed, and the phone remained in its special spot at the bottom of the stairs. Throughout this time, members of my family sat on the steps, carrying on hundreds of conversations. All of us perched there as we spoke into the black box that magically carried our voices over slivers of wire and allowed us to communicate with friends and family.

It was over this phone one day that we learned my grandfather, my mother's father, had died. I remember her sitting on Dad's lap and crying because she hadn't been there when he died. He had asked for her, but she was 300 miles away. Without turnpikes and highways, she might have been 3000 miles away. It was one time where the message was too urgent and important to convey in a letter. No, this was a message for the black phone.

During our time in that house, I became a teenager. Now the special little alcove seemed a less private place to carry on my conversations. There were no extensions in our home, so I was forced to conduct my important teenage business within earshot of my whole family. In retrospect, this was probably a blessing to my parents. They  listened closely to these exchanges in order to keep abreast of where my hormonal tendencies might be leading! My time on the phone became lengthy as I contorted my body into wildly intricate shapes while I chatted with my friends. The cord would be wrapped around the railing like a snake crawling on a vine. The walls carried imprints of my shoes as I laid myself lengthwise on a tread while my feet supported the wall. After what I considered an unreasonably short amount of time, I'd hear my father's voice ordering me to "get off the phone!"

When I was fifteen and a sophomore in high school, my father, who worked for JC Penny, came home one day and announced he had been "transferred." That meant we had to move to another state (this time it was Kentucky), and once again, we'd have to leave behind all that was familiar. For me, that meant friends - including a boyfriend! Could there be anything more tragic for a teenager? I conveyed the sad news to my friends. We were all sufficiently devastated. My boyfriend promised to write, but how long would that last? While my father traveled ahead to find housing for us, my mother stoically packed up our belongings and prepared us for the move.

My sister and I were distraught at leaving our friends. When my father returned to collect us for the trip to our new home, my two best friends stood beside our car, arms locked together, weeping profusely on each others shoulder! As my father watched them in the rear view mirror, waving pathetically as we drove away, he said he felt like a criminal as he listened to my sister and I sobbing in the back seat! Our parents tried to find a way to soften the blow, so as we traveled south to Kentucky, they described the bedroom my sister and I would share. It was a huge room on the bottom level with lighted panels that would light up over our beds. They were decorated with butterflies, they told us, and best of all, we were to get a special bonus for our brave acceptance of the move. He and my mother were having a phone extension installed in our room! A pink phone! A pink Princess phone!

We quickly dried our eyes, sitting up with anticipation. We begged for more details about this fabulous new room. "How big is the room," we asked. This was an important point for both of us because we had a significant love/hate relationship. During the periods when we couldn't stand the sight of each other, large expanses of space were necessary to prevent bodily harm. "And we can really have a phone in our room?" We felt it was imperative we nail down this particular item before we crossed the state line. Our parents assured us  the room was large and the phone extension was a guaranteed perk! We settled back with contentment for the rest of the trip.

The room we shared was indeed large, although we were a little spooked by the butterfly panels. It turned out they were real butterflies that had been wedged between two panels of glass. After we got over our sympathy for the butterflies (and our "gross-out" over their manner of death), we decided we liked the lighted panes. There was sufficient distance between our beds so we could shout insults to each other safely. But best of all, we had a pink princess phone. Although there was no special little alcove, we both agreed it should be installed near the stairs leading up from our bedroom. Once again, we used the stairs as a background for our conversational contortions, sprawling and twisting as we gabbed with friends, both new and old! 

As wonderful as our new little phone was, it couldn't measure up to the heavy antique we left behind in Toledo.  No, that was a special phone never to be compared with any that came after it.

Today, phones do amazing things.  With a flick of a finger, you can pull up a phone number, find a list of nearby restaurants, access your email, and take a picture of a spectacular sunset.  You can navigate unfamiliar territory with your phone's GPS system, videotape a bank holdup and talk without ever picking up the receiver.  You can slip your phone into your shirt pocket and have room left over. 

Yes, your phone can do amazing things, but with all those incredible functions, there is one thing of which I am certain.  Nothing could ever compare to the heavy black phone of my childhood.  The size of it, the weight of it, the color of it can never be matched.  I'm sorry for any who have not experienced the magic of that long-ago relic of my childhood. 

The Information Highway never visited the black phone in the little niche on Maplewood Avenue.  The black phone didn't have a dataport, voice mail, call waiting or touch tone dialing.  But that phone had character and a dignified presence. 

If ever you should come across that big, heavy black phone, please send my regards.  It's number is "Cherry 6-3574!"