THE NUMBER WAS simple; just 1112, which meant three short rings and one long one. The old telephone box on the wall worked just fine except when the lines were down from a storm or when the snow drifts got so high that the lines were shorted out. We thought that old telephone was really "uptown". Everyone could listen in to the conversation, and usually did. Nothing was ever a secret in rural Nebraska in the 20's.

When three long rings were sounded, we knew we were supposed to listen because someone needed help. When someone needed help in that community in those times, assistance came from all directions. Maybe the barn was burning; someone needed strong backs with shovels to help get someone to the doctor through the snow drifts; or maybe some one was missing in the storm. Sometimes, it was news of a death in the community. We relied on the hand-crank telephone, and many times it was a life-saver.

If we needed a doctor to make a house call, which doctors did then, we dialed "Central" and told her we needed the doctor. If he was not in his office, the operator knew where to find him. The phone was not at that time used as a social communicator, it was used mostly for serious business of family and community. If the call was for my father, perhaps, we had to put the phone down and run to the far ends of the farm to find him. We weren't blessed with a little beeper which could call him to the house. We couldn't take the phone to the person being called, he or she had to come to the phone. We couldn't pick it off the wall and walk around the house talking to someone; it stayed fastened very securely on the wall in our living, dining, game, and study room. Teenagers didn't at that time have an appendage growing from their ear into which they could converse with school friends they had just left a few minutes ago. The telephone was not cordless, cellular, nor automated.

After all these years of life on this planet, I believe the telephone might come closest to being the one thing I wish could take me back to the "good ol' days". When we wanted to call someone on our line, we just cranked short and long rings according to the number. If we needed to call someone on another line, we needed to crank one long one for "Central", and she connected us. If we needed to make a long distance call which was very rare, Central had to put us through. One time as we made a call to a podiatrist in Sioux City, we heard later about how the Central had a hard time figuring out what a podiatrist was so she could spread the news. Of course, if she knew news, it had to be told.

There was none of this business of calling, getting a voice saying if you are having an emergency of a physical nature, hang up and call 911; if you are dying, press 1; if you want to die, press 2; if you want to talk to a nurse, push 3; press 4 to see the doctor; and if you have died during this interval, go back to the beginning, and call 911. A caller didn't have to spend 45 minutes pressing buttons only to be greeted by a machine. We were able to talk to a living, breathing, listening person.

Hold buttons were not an option, caller I.D. wasn't available to us, and voice mail didn't cost us a penny extra; we didn't have it. Kids couldn't use the telephone without getting up on a chair; and forget making long distance calls. They were, of course, possible as far as the telephone was concerned, but not as far as the phone bill was concerned. The only voice messaging we had was that after a number of unanswered rings, someone in the neighborhood would answer and volunteer to relay the message to us if we were in the garden, or in the fields. Everybody knew via the telephone who was dating who, who was coming to whose house for dinner, what husband was late arriving home, and whose child was sick. There was something good about all this also, as people offered help if somebody was ill, or gave comfort in times of crisis, or were there to be good neighbors in other ways. If a family had to call in an emergency for a doctor, some neighbor was there to offer assistance before the doctor arrived.

Cellular phones? Can you imagine that the farmer cultivating his field with a team of horses might be talking on a cellular as he worked? The height of ridiculousness, right? Not so ridiculous now as farmers have televisions, computers, and cellular phones with them in the cab of those big monster iron tractors. A mobile phone could have been a real help in the 20's, but they were for another generation or two. Oh, no, there were no pagers either. I wonder how we all coped. If that primitive service was interrupted for any reason, the phone company was out that very day to find the problem, being very much aware of the seriousness of us being without a means of calling for help. The company was not on an automated system, either. We didn't have to find our options of pressing this number, and that number for several minutes to notify someone that our service was out. Of course, we had to go to the nearest neighbor to do the calling about the problem.

Sometimes, this automated phone system "progress" seems more like a rat finding his way through a maze. I finally caught on to the trick of pressing 0 at the beginning of the message, but some of the companies caught on to that old trick, and fixed that so that a voice comes on now and informs the caller that zero is not an option. I've decided that it would be much easier to just go out and saddle Old Dan and ride to the doctor, or the garage, or the grocery store, or the drug store. Old Dan knew the way and I could have arrived there and talked eyeball to eyeball with someone in the amount of time it took to thread my way through the maze.

Could it be that banks, insurance companies, and hospitals have the automated systems installed to discourage callers. I can see them sitting around drinking coffee, and rolling in the aisles laughing over the frustration we have in trying to contact them. Of course, if they want to collect a bill, or contact us, it is easy for them. Where is the justice? How about if we all get automated systems so that when an insurance company wants to be paid, they hear, AGood morning, this is the Maze Company. If you want to speak with us about our bill press 65, wait 45 minutes, and then press 16. An operator will inform you that all of our desks are busy, so please hold and your call will be handled in the order in which it was received. Let's make them wait another half hour and then we will tell them business hours are over. Please call during normal office hours.

In the case of someone breaking into our home and we needed law enforcement, will we be put on hold, or told to press the letters SOS, or will they give us voice mail and promise to call back? Where is the Lone Ranger and Tonto, Roy and Dale, Gene Autry, and all those protectors of the people? Where have they gone?

I sure hope the Fire Department doesn't hide behind the maze-system. If that were the case, we actually wouldn't need them; the house would be gone by the time we got through all the presses, waits, and other options.

Of course, with progress, should come the knowledge of how to use that innovative appliance, but being the vintage I am, my ears, my bifocals, my fumbling fingers, and my brain don't cooperate sometimes. I sometimes think the solution would be to go back to two tomato juice cans connected with a little string. I can't get up on Old Dan anymore. I could get down though, that would be no problem. I do have one of those new-fangled contraptions called an automobile, in which I can go to my daughter, and say, "Here, please call my bank about this problem". Thank goodness for daughters. A problem that frustrates me no end, is one she takes care of in a matter of minutes. So what does that tell me? The problem is me, not the telephone. Therefore, we will let Old Dan rest and I promise to throw away the tomato juice cans, I will not look for a crank on the side of my telephone and I will not expect it to ring three short rings and then one long one.

I haven't decided whether to quit calling my doctor, my pharmacist, and my bank and just write them a letter to send by pony express, or maybe I will hire a secretary. Anyone who was born after President Harding's administration will probably be proficient in using all these modern contraptions. Oh, well, those were the good old days; but let me keep my cellular, my cordless phone, and my voice mail. I can suffer through the frustration of the automation.

By the way, to reach me, call the letters "O-L-D", then enter the last four digits of your social security number, hang up, and wait for me to call back. When I get the call, (if I ever do) I will call back, provided you have a simple system to enter. Or, another solution would be to put your phone on call forwarding, grab your cellular, get on your four-wheeler and come on over! We could sit on the deck with my cellular by my side, and talk about the old days when everything was so very simple.

Admitting that the "good old days" were terrible compared to the "now" days, seems to be as difficult to admit as listening to all those calling options. One thing is for sure, we don't have the option of getting older; we don't make that decision, but isn't the trip to old age a real exciting, unpredictable, and gratifying challenge? Just call me! The number is in the book, and I promise I don't have an automated system. You either get me in real live person, or you get my message system. My cat refuses to take messages.