Brother Broken

Good morning, waky, waky.

Here's a condensed description of our home...

Ma famille lived on a farm until 1958, which was slightly before my time. Dad decided to move off the farm and into town for his kids to have more advantages. He kept on farming, though he had to commute an extra eight miles every day.

The modified granary that served as my parents’ first home had become inadequate to meet the needs of a growing family. There were limitations on how much Dad could adapt a single-room dwelling to accommodate six individuals. It was a constant effort for Mom to keep babies and toddlers away from the woodstove used for heating and cooking.

Our new home had been used as a rooming house. It was built during the first decade of the twentieth century. By the time my family acquired it, the house was run down—but still a marked improvement from the granary. The main floor had a lobby, an eating area, a kitchen, and living quarters. Guest rooms and primitive bathroom facilities were on the top floor.

The lobby served as a telephone office. Before my parents bought the place, it had provided phone service to the entire village. By obtaining the home, my family also acquired a home business. Mom became the new telephone operator for the village. Actually, we all became telephone operators as soon as we were mature enough to reach the switchboard, operate the hand-crank, and follow simple instructions.

Mom put us through the training and showed us how to facilitate a call. We started with a clear, concise inquiry: “Number, please?” Meaning, to whom do you wish to place the call? When the caller provided the info, we jammed a phone plug into the proper jack and rang up the number. We had to spin the hand crank to trigger the buzzer on the receiver’s end and wait for a response. When someone answered, we flicked a switch and freed the call so they could have their little chat. By the age of five, John and I were old hacks at the job.


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