The Party Line

A GRACIOUS institution has, by Modern Progress, been done to death in our Vermont valley; and, while its dear memory is still fresh in our hearts, I should like to celebrate it.

The party line!

We did our best to save it. When we heard that the telephone company was planning to install a ‘Central’ in our village and divide our few generous farflung lines into twoand four-party affairs, we called a mass meeting and entered a unanimous protest.

Our reasons were, of course, partly economic. Progress always costs. But some of them were frankly sentimental, and the best of them concerned a standard of convenience which the telephone company ignored. Perhaps I can most clearly explain this by means of illustration.

In the part of the valley where Christopher and I have our home, all subscribers to telephone line 16 knew each other well and took a lively interest in each other’s affairs. This had an occasional disadvantage. Some of us liked to chat so long that the rest of us were kept waiting. All of us were guilty of inadvertent or intentional eavesdropping. But the assets far outweighed the liabilities.

Frequently, for instance, it happened that Christopher and I, having left our house for the village, were stopped by a neighbor running out of her door. ‘Say, your number’s ringing. Don’t you want to come in and answer it?’ Or, if we had already passed when our number set up urgent repetition, a neighbor would answer for us. ‘They’re not at home. Just drove by. Yep, headed for the village. Looked as if they might be goin’ out to supper. Had their best clothes on. Well, no, I could n’t say. But the minister called there this afternoon. Maybe he’d know.’

Our immediate neighbors and close friends, Lorenzo and Egidio, made a point of transacting all our telephone business for us when we were away, and we did the same for them.

‘That must be long distance,’ I said to Christopher when their number had rung with rhythmic insistence. ‘It’s probably his brother in Boston. You’d better answer.’ Or, ‘That’s a local call. Probably Bert. Funny he did n’t see them drive by, but maybe he was at supper. Hello, Bert! Yes, I thought so. Well, they’re at the Green Gate Tea Room.’

On one occasion, when their number rang, I had no fuller information to give than that they had driven in the direction of the village about fifteen minutes ago.

‘You don’t know where they were going?’

‘No; I’m sorry. I’ll gladly take a message, or ask them to call you up if you’ll give me your number.’

‘I have n’t any. I’m phoning from the store.’

‘Well, wait a minute.’

I had an idea. Lorenzo was just then engaged in writing a novel, and his ‘hero’ was critically ill with pneumonia. When I had seen him the evening before, he had been perplexed over the medical treatment. It occurred to me that he might have gone to our village doctor for advice.

‘Try four-eight, ring one-one,’ I suggested.

And, sure enough, he was there!

For their part, these friendly neighbors have taken telegrams for us, made accurate predictions of the hour of our return from Rutland or Bennington, headed off inopportune callers, declined invitations they knew we could not accept, answered inquiries, and have in general rendered themselves so indispensable that we had almost rather not have a telephone at all than one unshared by them. What should I have done that time when I was stranded at a distant railroad station and Christopher, being in his studio, did not hear my ring, if Lorenzo, hearing and answering, had not come and rescued me? What would have happened if Egidio had not warned us that some visitors were driving over from Manchester and we’d better put the teakettle over and change our clothes?

Manchester is a polite and somewhat sophisticated resort, and people telephoning thence sometimes found our party line amusing — especially if they were tourists fresh from some metropolis.

‘I tried to call you up the other day,’ said a New York friend who was on a motor trip, ‘and when a man’s voice answered, I said, “Hello, Christopher!” But he replied, “No, I ain’t him. He’s gone to Granville. Leastways, I think so, for she had a cat in her lap.’” Granville is the site of a locally famous animal hospital.

Still more diverted were some friends from Washington who, spending the night at a Manchester inn, thought they would get in touch with us and to this end applied to ‘Central.’

‘Well,’ she replied, ‘there’s a church supper in Dorset this evening and they’re probably not at home; but I can try.’

Trying and failing, she volunteered the further information that the supper would be over about eight o’clock; and to our surprise our friends met us at the church door.

Now all this personal interest is, to my way of thinking, a far more valuable thing than mere efficiency. It is even more helpful, and so is more truly efficient. Modern Progress was guilty of an act of real stupidity when it broke up our party line.

But it did it. Oh, yes, indeed! Our unanimous protest availed not at all. No group of individuals can nowadays decide whether or not if will remain unprogressed.

ZEPHINE HUMPHREY