Commentary: Remembering the days when phones were not so smart

Remember when all you had to do to use a phone was plug one end of a flat cord into it and the other into the phone jack, then connect the handset to the phone with a long curly cord so you could dial a number and then walk all over the house and talk?

I remember when black fabric-covered cords were “hard-wired” to the wall and the handset alone weighed about 10 pounds. The round dial went “prssssht” when you inserted your index finger in the hole by the number and moved it to the curved finger-stop, and then “click-click-click-click-click” as the dial returned.

Now that’s dialing!

The first phone number I remember—probably because I’d become old enough to call friends — was WHitney 7165. You dialed WH 7165. My Citrus Avenue friends had different prefixes. Mary’s was WYoming, and Sharon’s and Jeanne’s were WEbster. The three of them had five-digit numbers, not just four like ours.

In 1960, my phone number was WEbster 8-3000, and it was fun to say it was the same as how many hot dogs Webster ate at the baseball game.

Phone numbers changed in the late 1960s when I lived in the Valley. My number went from DIckens 3-3143 to 343-3143. Classy! And you only needed to dial three numbers. That was my number when Lee and I were dating. Ah, sweet memories. Before area codes.

I had five mismatched stationary phones in my modest-sized house, but I’ve yielded and replaced them with portable phones. My friend John talked me into it a couple weeks ago after I ranted about all my unwanted callers. He said he’d bought a telephone system (I didn’t even know what a telephone system was) with a button that blocks calls.

Whoopee! It was like promising me heaven in a box.

Installing the new phones was daunting. I should have expected as much when the top of the box included instructions for how to repackage the contents. It was another of those unpleasant introductions to the world as the rest of humanity accepts that it works. Well, those who still have landline telephones.

Telephones. Not those rectangular smudged-up shiny things never out of reach.

Do you know that a man recently married his cellphone in Las Vegas, with his wedding ring attached to “the bride”? A natural evolution of such single-minded devotion.

I have a cellphone. It’s my second. My first had a lifetime $20 contract and was never charged. My kids insisted I get a smartphone. Now I have a cellphone that is never charged and costs me $70 a month. Since I learned to slide my finger over it to turn off the power, it stays charged longer, but the extra $50 a month hasn’t enhanced my life.

My kids’ phones chime or chirp or bark or play symphonies when they get a call. In fact, I don’t remember what mine does because I’ve told everyone that all my phone does is dial out, and only 911.

The first time I was in a restaurant and someone was using a cellphone in a rather loud voice — silly me, I asked if he could wait until he left the restaurant to finish his call.

Offended, he said, “I’m doing business here!” Offended, I replied, “We’re having dinner here!”

WHitney 7165 was never answered at dinnertime. And the ball was still in the caller’s court because there weren’t message machines then. People just called back later, and they called back if the line was busy.

Don’t get me wrong. I recognize the value of cellphones. They are especially good for parents. They make it possible for business people to receive calls when away from the office. And they’re handy if you’re trying to find someone at the airport, assuming I’m not the person you’re trying to find.

Come to think of it, the only places phones don’t ring are theaters, libraries, and bridge-game rooms. No wonder I love movies, books and bridge!

So my new phones — which weigh about as much as a marshmallow — are ready! I can’t wait to block a Realtor’s call.

If only I had a block button on the mailbox. The trees we’d save!

--

LIZ SWIERTZ NEWMAN lives in Corona del Mar.