Posted on April 12, 2014 under Storytelling with one comment

One Ringie Dingie

 

 

“Operator, well could you help me place this call?”

Operator by Jim Croce

I live about an hour and a half away from the summer home of the inventor of the telephone.  Alexander Graham Bell and his wife Mabel (Ma Bell?) vacationed in Baddeck, Nova Scotia.  They called their property “Beinn Bhreagh”, which roughly translated means “Make collect calls any time you get the chance”.

My office is in the original Switchboard building in Antigonish.  Ron, the owner of the building and also my business colleague, has collected many old phones which are kept on display as you come in to the office.  He even found an old switchboard that graces the foyer as you enter the building.  Phones have gone through many radical transformations over the years and now very few people even have land lines any more.  And if you have children or grandchildren, you know that using the phone in a traditional manner is passé.

Mercifully, long distance telephone charges have come down through the years through a combination of competition and technology.

But this wasn’t always the case.

In 1976, I began my short-lived teaching career in the town of Fairview, Alberta.  Prior to my arrival, I had arranged to rent an apartment which seemed like the logical thing to do.  Four other friends from the east coast had also been hired by the same school board.  I am not certain what they were thinking but they arrived in town only days before the school year began and none of them had a place to stay.  In very short order, my two bedroom apartment was fully occupied.

The first month could easily be described as chaotic.  We were all rookie teachers, flying by the seats of our pants.  We still had the “party gene” very much intact after our university days.  And a few of the guys had serious female relationships still percolating on the east coast.

The telephone was easily the most important item in the apartment.  Invariably, one of the five was on the phone.  The length of some of the conversations made the Boston Marathon seem like a 5K fun run.   Especially if alcohol was involved.  Which was often.

Early in October, the first phone bill arrived.  Of course the listing was in my name.  Back in those days, the phone company actually printed out statements detailing every call.  The envelope was very thick.  The phone bill was long.  Thirteen pages long, to be exact.  I casually flipped through the pages and came to the total on the last page: $1200.

Do you have any idea of what a $1200 phone bill was like back in 1976?  If you applied the long term inflation rate of 3% over a 38 year period, you would come up with about $3746 in today’s dollars.

The boys had just arrived home from school.  It was a Friday.  Oh, I failed to mention that my (our) apartment was exactly two doors down from the liquor store.  I waited until the first few beers had found their mark before pulling out the phone bill.

Several hours and several rum and cokes later, one of the guys came up with a novel solution to the telephone problem.  He simply went into the kitchen and pulled the entire apparatus, including the cord off the wall.  Poor Alexander G. Bell must have been rolling over in his grave.

Monday arrived and we all traipsed into the staff room.  Everyone was commiserating about the weekend past and the week ahead.  My friend, the one who had removed the phone from its moorings, was the last to enter the room.  He was pulling the phone along the floor by the cord, as you might do with an uncooperative puppy.  He was whistling to the phone as if he were giving it instructions.  He threw the 13 pages of the phone bill up in the air and let out a mighty roar.

To this day, I am not sure if the staff ever really understood what hit them when the “five wise men from the east”, (a term coined by our principal, Norm,) arrived in their sedate town.  I should ring them up and ask.

I think I’ll call collect.

 

 

 

 

Posted on April 10, 2014 under Thursday Tidbits with no comments yet

A Possible Madness

 

 

I have some hard core followers out there. You know who you are. You read just about everything I write and often fire off a comment. I wish I could find another 1000 just like you. Surely there are other people with your refined tastes!

Once in a blue moon I put a story out there that resonates with a wider audience. Such was the case with Tuesday’s story called “Taken For a Ride.” The only other story that got a bigger response was “Lou’s Last Laugh” ( the one with the skunk in the grave ). If you are new to Week45, just go to the search bar on the top right hand corner of my home page and search for the story.  I had quite a few comments. In case you were wondering how the story actually ended, the couple immediately turned around and drove back to the airport. They filled the tank and dropped off the car where they found it. I think we all imagined them getting pulled over by the Mounties after a report of a stolen vehicle. Only in Nova Scotia!

I will once again shamelessly promote Frank Macdonald’s two excellent novels: “A Forest For Calum” and “ A Possible Madness.” Frank is looking forward to coming for the fundraiser and you will appreciate the show even more if you are familiar with his style.

Attention , all Cape Bretoners.  I decided it was high time that I confess , in public, my lineage, including my Cape Breton roots. My father was born in St.Peter’s and his people originally came from the neighboring community of Soldier’s Cove. My brother, Don did a family history and at one point in time , there were 18 John MacDonald’s living in Soldier’s Cove. Probably nice guys but not a very imaginative bunch when it came to doling out names.  I have a story coming up called “ My Cape Breton Passport” where I try to prove conclusively that I have a right to claim citizenship,  if Cape Breton tries to pull the sovereignty card ( like Quebec ).  And, no, I will not comment on the Quebec election. The people spoke. Enough said!

Saturday’s story will be the one I wrote about an outrageous phone bill a group of us incurred back in 1976 while living and teaching in Northern Alberta. Do you know what a $1200 phone bill is in today’s dollars using a 3% annual inflation rate?  If you don’t want to waste your time on Google, I will tell all on Saturday.

I’m trying to come up with an Easter story. There is one I would like to write but I still fear excommunication when I think of a particular Good Friday back in 1978 when a group of my colleagues ( teachers ) decided to have a party on Good Friday afternoon. Sacrilegious?  Probably. Grounds for dismissal? Likely. Why the big deal? The party was in a house that abutted the Catholic Church. It was the first truly spectacular spring day and the boys cut loose. The party started at noon and hit its zenith right around the time of the crucifixion. There were very large speakers out on the lawn. Hendrix blasting.  Yeah. You’re right. It was ugly. Ouch. I think I’ll stick to something safe like a story about an Easter egg hunt.

Bring on The Masters golf tournament.

Have a great weekend.

 

 

Posted on April 8, 2014 under Storytelling with 3 comments

 

 

The call came from the east coast, to their home in Calgary,that mother was in failing health.  She and her husband hastily arranged a flight to Halifax that would have them arrive late into the night.  Coming from a large family, there was no shortage of vehicles and the plan was set in place.  Upon arrival at Stanfield airport, they were to proceed to aisle E of the parkade and pick up her sister Cathy’s Buick.  The keys would be under the gas cap, a long held tradition depicting the family’s rural roots.

With the three hour time difference factored in, they had been on the go for some 18 hours by the time they pulled their luggage off the carousel.  They made their way to the parking lot, spotted the Buick and within minutes were on their way.  They saw a parking pass hanging from the mirror and didn’t even have to stop at ticket booth on the way out.   As they approached, the gate automatically lifted.  They eased their way onto the 102 heading east to the family home in Pictou County.

They were quite impressed with the smooth ride of the LeSabre.

Joe worked on the cleaning staff at the airport and was affectionately referred to as “Joe the Janitor”. Joe, not surprisingly, was a neat freak.  It came with the territory.  He was especially attentive to his precious red Buick. He washed it nearly every week of the year and sometimes more often.  On his way to work the back shift, he had stopped by the Big Stop, just around the corner from the airport, and treated himself to a deluxe car wash.  It was nice change from standing in his driveway applying water in frigid temperatures.

They arrived at the family home at 1:30 in the morning.  Another sister was at the door waiting for them. She did not recognize the vehicle.  She turned to her husband and said “Who the heck is that?”

The vehicle that had been left in aisle E at the airport was a Buick Enclave, brown in color.

It didn’t take too much deciphering, even at this ungodly hour of the night, to determine that something had gone terribly wrong.  They were driving someone else’s vehicle.  They looked in the cubby hole and sure enough, the vehicle registration was in the thick owner’s manual folder.  The owner of the vehicle was Joseph.  They didn’t need to know his last name.  His name wasn’t Cathy.

After a cup of tea and a bite, the vehicle was returned to the airport, to section E, but a few spots down the row from where it had been found.

It had been a particularly busy shift for Joe and he was quite tired as he headed to his vehicle.  He thought it a bit odd that his car had seemed to somehow magically relocate itself.  He also noticed more than a trace of salt on the sides of the car.  He was certain that he had filled the car with gas but it was showing half full.  He chalked all of this up to fatigue.   As he was going through the ticket booth area, the attendant yelled something to him.  Something about him leaving last night mid-shift.  He couldn`t quite hear him as he had Q104 turned up high.

He headed for home in Elmsdale as the sun broke through, a blessed and welcome sight after all the bad weather lately.  He pulled the visor down and an envelope dropped into his lap.  He pulled off to the side of the road.

He opened the envelope and read with interest:

“Dear Joe,

You don’t know us but thanks for the use of your car last night.  Here is some money for gas and a car wash.  If you’re ever in Calgary, look us up.  You can use one of our vehicles.”

Joe climbed into bed thinking that it might be time to give up the back shift.