‘CENTRAL’ WAS SMALL TOWN’S EXECUTIVE SECRETARY
Her “Number , please,” was the invariable response when she answered a ring, and the caller’s response was almost equally routine: “Hello, Central, can you get me four-three-eight?” or some similarly compact telephone number.
“One moment please,” she would say, and with practiced economy of motion would plug in the cords, flick the switches and twist the handles that turned the request into a telephone connection.
Usually.
Sometimes Central would be back on the line with a “Sorry, that line is busy,” or “Sorry, they don’t answer.” The apologetic “sorry” was part of the routine.
Today the equipment used is seen mostly in museums, but in her heyday “Central” was a key communications link in rural America. It was only in later years that she became known as the “operator.”
She—it was almost always “she”—was more than an invisible functionary who provided vocal contacts via the phone lines. She often was also the town’s unofficial executive secretary, who took pride in keeping her subscribers informed as to who was where and how they could be reached.
In her most accommodating mode she would generate a conversation that went something like this:
Central: “Number please.”
Caller: “Four-eight-three, please.”
Central: “Are you calling Ted?”
Caller: “Yes.
Central: “He went to Stanton.”
Caller: “Can you reach him?”
Central: “I’ll ring the courthouse if you want to call long distance. I know he was going there.”
She sat in front of a switchboard perforated with holes made for the plugs and retractable cables that provided the electrical connections between caller and called. Below each hole was a little tab—the “drop”—which fell forward at an angle to let Central know which number was ringing her.
Actually, the signal to the operator at the board was a buzz, not a ring. And her response sounded more like “Number, plee-uz,” part of the special language operators used.
The caller would give her the number and Central would go through the practiced motions that predated automated telephone switching. The early boards required the turn of a hand crank connected to a small magneto that generated the electrical power to produce a ring.
Except for infrequent long distance calls, Central’s duties were not awfully demanding. They left adequate time for listening in on conversations, ostensibly to “make sure the connection was good” and to participate in conversations when the urge became irresistible.
Her intrusions into the privacy of the telephone conversations frequently were helpful, but not always welcome. On the plus side was the restraining effect on small town hanky panky inherent in the awareness that telephone monitoring was an ever present possibility. On the minus side was the shred wisdom that it might be better to walk a couple of blocks if confidentiality had to be maintained.
A request for a number could bring vital information and occasionally a social judgment.
“I’ll ring for you,” Central might say, “but I’m quite sure she’s at Mrs. Martin’s coffee party. I thought you might be there, too.”
It was considered a mixed blessing when Central would break into a conversation to warn one of the parties that her husband was trying to reach her and appeared to be getting impatient with the busy line.
There was a special word for the officially forbidden but frequently practiced function of monitoring conversations: “rubbering.”
But in that category, Central ran a poor second to isolated farm wives for whom the neighborhood “party line” was a vital link to the world.
A typical party line would have from five to 20 subscribers who not only shared the use of the line but also shared the costs of installation and maintenance. In addition, they had to buy their own walls phones which in those days fortunately where a lot less costly than they are today in the antique stores.
Farm line numbers utilized ringing codes so everyone on the line knew who was being called. The code for the Smith farm might be two longs and a short. For the Johnson’s it could be three shorts and a long.
There was a special code for the “line ring.” This usually was nine short rings, an invitation for everyone to get on the line. It was vital in times of trouble—“Jake’s barn is burning”—and handy for spreading good tidings—“Staley’s General Merchandise wishes all of you a very Merry Christmas.”
The line ring also provided the telephone exchange with an additional source of income—“Edelstein’s Store is paying 10 cents a dozen for eggs.” Or, “Bring your cream to Lagge’s Cream Station for the highest prices in town.” This advertising could cost a merchant as much as 50 cents.
Farm lines tended to suffer from a power drain problem. The more people on the line, the less distinct the message. Thus a ling ring was likely to be followed by questions such as, “What did she say the price was?”
During “private” Calls on the party line the amount of interference or “static” was considered an indicator as to how many folks along the line were rubbering because mouthpieces generated noises even when a hand was discretely held over them.
Rubbering sometimes could be reduced by a comment: “I’ve got a lot more to tell you, Emma, but you know who’s one the line.” As the receivers were gently put back on the hooks, even the quiet clicks had a guilty sound.
One popular farm line ruse was the false call. This was a brief, innocuous conversation before both parties would hang up and then, at a previously agreed upon few minutes later, would pick up the phone to continue the conversation in relative security. Nor guarantees of privacy, but worth a try.
The owner of the local phone company and employer of Central was more often than not also the chief lineman, repairman, installer and relief operator. On company documents he might be listed as “president,” but to the community he was the “telephone man.” Members of his family filled in at the switchboard as soon as they were big enough to reach the jacks and strong enough to turn the crank.
Technically, telephone service was available 24 hours a day. From a practical standpoint, however, it was not considered wise to use the phone between 111 at night and six in the morning, when the relief operator was asleep on a cot in the Central office. During those dark hours there were likely to be sharp lapses from the genial helpfulness that characterized daytime service.
However, if the news was important or the disaster big, she could be relied on to not only cooperate nobly, but also to aid in spreading the word.
Long distance calls fell into the category of adventure. The sound of the words, “long distance calling” could generate feelings ranging from apprehension to quiet terror. Long distance calls were reserved for unusual situations, and often that meant bad news.
Nor was long distance calling an economical way to pass time. Before the days of microwave relay towers and communications satellites, the whole country was wired together with a spider web of phone lines, activated by intricate, yet cumbersome, switching arrangements that made calls costly, even by today’s standards.
Central would pass the caller along to the long distance operator who would relay it to the nearest trunk operator who would contact another trunk operator who would sent it along to a local operator at the destination. Only then, with luck, would it reach the person called. If all the connecting went well, there was still the specter of the bad connection. If it was bad enough there might be a refund. The more common result was a lot of shouting.
In our family the climatic telephone adventure came shortly after World War II when we joined in giving our mother a Christmas present consisting of a telephone visit with her sister in Europe, after the two had been out of contact during the war years.
Arrangements were made many days in advance—an appointment call in which the person at the other end is notified that the call will be coming at a specified time. In this case, Christmas Eve. Also, it was to be a conference call at the U.S. end, connecting family members in three states and four homes. Joining in the Christmas spirit, the telephone man installed extra phones in the local homes so everyone could be in on the conversations.
Christmas Eve came and the international call was put in motion. Connection difficulties in the States provided a small clue to the call’s complications when we would lose Casper or Chicago, but they were back in time for the European connection. For the two sisters it was a tearful reunion while the rest of us performed a cheering section trying to get a coherent conversation underway.
Despite our careful planning, we had overlooked two things. The differences in time zones meant our aunt in Europe was receiving the call at four in the morning. We also learned that she had no phone in her home and in the dark hours of that Christmas morning she was talking on an outdoor telephone.
If we missed something in the exchange of conversations, it needn’t have worried us. Central not only had a good ear, but a phonographic memory as well. It could all be played back the next day.