Rev. Erudite Redneck, B.S., B.S., M.A., M.Div.

By The Erudite Redneck

Jiggle, jiggle. “Sarah? Get me the Internet. I’ll wait.”

We never had to call “Central” to get an outside line, but when I was growing up we did have a party line. We shared it with three other houses.

That means at least three out of four times when the phone would ring, it wouldn’t be for us – something that boggles young minds, my own back then, and any young 'un’s today.

Used to be, having a phone “number’ with letters in it sort of meant you were uptown – or at least in town: Seems like SUNmark 527 might have been a phone “number,” or something like it. I’m not sure because it was before me.

Seems like our ring was two longs and a short: “Riiiiing. Riiiiing. Ring.”

There were other combinations:

“Ring. Ring.”

“Riiiiing. Ring. Riiiiing.”

“Ring. Ring. Ring.”

That meant that whenever the phone started to ring, we had to listen close – to hear whether it was for us or a neighbor.

The first phone number I remember was 3138. Then, it went to 6-3138. Then to 776-3138.

It’s hard to imagine a four-digit phone number now, when you have to dial an area code and full number to call almost anywhere besides across town.

But as recently as the early ’90s, in my father-in-law’s small home town in Texas, you could dial across town with four numbers – and I mean “dial.”

And just after midnight on New Year’s Eve, I still might call Mama or my brother and say, “Is this "2-oh-oh-5?” Because they’ll still get it.

It was funnier in the '70s, for some reason, when you called rank strangers with those four-digit numbers. It seemed to always catch people:

“Riiiiing. Ring. Ring.”

(Yawn.) “Hello?”

“Hi. Is this 1-9-7-7?”

(Yawn). “No. This is 3-1-3-9.” (Yawn).

“Ha, ha! It IS Nineteen seventy-seven! Happy new year! (Snicker). Click.

Being on a party line – wait, why was it called a “party line?” I guess it was because everyone on it was party to everyone else’s business. Or at least party to the same line. Boy, it would take some explaining to explain all that to a young ’un.

Try explaining what a “dial tone” is. First, you have to explain that there used to be dials on telephones.

All this rambling is courtesy of the angst that colors my temples and the bile that rises in my throat whenever I sign on to this here Internet, which is supposed to be so all-fired modern and all.

The kid in the “Zits” comic strip once wondered something like: “If the Internet is supposed to be so modern, why does it sound like a Warner Bros. cartoon when I sign on?” Funny.

That, itself, I suppose, is going away with the advent of broadband connectivity and the fading away of “dial-up” connections, which is a dated thing to call it, if you think about it. There is no dial on this computer or an any phone in this house.

What’s not so funny is the disconnect, if you’ll pardon the expression, I feel when I sign on. This clunky computer, with clunky AOL, barely, barely gets me on and off. The computer is four years old, and I can’t afford to upgrade because I just bought my kiddo one for college.

There is so much on the ‘Net, and so many ways to access it – and I feel like I’m stuck in Mayberry, usin’ one of those big, black, upright desktop phones with the separate receiver strung on a wire connected to the microphone.

I click “Sign On” on AOL and expect to hear a nice lady say, “Howdy, ER. Number please.”

Side note: Let’s all welcome Dr. ER to the cold, hard world of Lost Blogs. Like me, she learned the hard way to never blog directly into the Blogger window – not on THIS crappy computer – because if something goes wrong, it’s gone.

Side note 2: A free small bag of pork rinds to the first person who puts my headline – “ 'Neet? Barn!” – in context. There is a clue in this post!

END