C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Long summer days meant more hours of work for Danny Reid as the young lineman maintained and upgraded the existing plant during these months when weather conditions favoured outdoor commitments. In addition, this year two new farm yards were being established in the area for young farmers who had recently married and set up a home of their own; a telephone was a necessity, not a luxury as it had once been. Danny initiated and designed the new pole line construction jobs, then hired and assisted the imported crew contracted for the projects. The contractors worked quickly and efficiently but the rural man necessarily dedicated many hours to the line construction as well.
The next generation farmers whom the telephone lines were for would be diversified operators like their parents, having grain land, a few cattle, farrowing pigs, maybe sheep, a horse or two and probably a flock of either chickens, ducks, turkeys, geese or a factor of all four. Mixed farming was a mixed blessing, with no end to chores, but a satisfaction of self sufficiency and working for yourself. The young people bore the marks of a tough climate and long hard days of labour a decade before middle age set upon them. Each year brought some minor advancement; perhaps the proverbial 'light at the end of the tunnel' grew imperceptibly brighter, obvious as the retreating of an ice age, but hearts beat strong and hope rode proud in 'Next Year Country'.
Danny shared the joys and sorrows of his country cousins and enjoyed an intimacy with them closer than their barber. Stalwart sons and grandsons of the pioneers, men who had seen the days of horse, the iron wheel and the threshing machine draw to a close, would confide in the local lineman. They would openly discuss planting a crop of barley here, maybe spring wheat or durum over there and they invariably told him how the yield was running at harvest time. Danny heard all the stories and listened with an attentive ear: “Hoppers took it all in June; most of that piece was hailed; a touch of late frost; it's higher than my truck; she's a bumper crop; maybe next year…” He offered no opinion, only a nod of agreement or a shake of his head in sympathetic disbelief. No one wanted answers, just an understanding audience. Several of the more seasoned veterans were more philosophical about the highs and lows of the industry; one octogenarian summed it up when he related a conversation he had had with a 'young,' neighbour, fifty-six years of age.
“He tol' me, he said ‘After thirty-seven years in the business, Andrew’, he said, ‘I finally got this farming thing figured out.’ Well, I said, ‘Yessir, I thought that too when I was your age.’”
Rare would be the occasion when Danny appeared at a farm on a trouble call to find no one there. Folks didn't travel far or often, but doors were never locked and people expected Danny to “go on in” if they weren't home. At the start of his career as Stockton's rural lineman, locals were hesitant with the young stranger, but news spread quickly, thanks, in part, to the kind words of Vera Mitchell. Danny had earned the respect he now claimed. He seldom packed a lunch, for the hospitality of farmers and ranchers would not allow someone to work on their premises without taking meals with the family. Often Danny would be repairing a stretch of line along a remote and seldom travelled road when a farmer would idle up in his farm truck insisting that the lineman join his family for dinner.
On this day meals were of less concern, but Danny especially appreciated the incredibly beautiful weather. He endured a couple of personal problems which would have seemed compounded by a bad bout of climactic vengeance: The top of the steel shank on his climbing spurs coincidentally met with a painfully swollen and bruised area on the inner side of his right knee where one of the Miltos' fractious calves had kicked him during the previous day's branding. The soreness made him wince at every step up and down the new poles on which he was tying in line; a second, minor problem was a slightly swollen head from drinking to the health of Ben Collins and his bride-to-be, Brenda Yeast. However, reflection upon the events of the previous day and evening overshadowed the aching. Danny found himself grinning 'out loud'….
After watching Benny walk out of the corral under his own steam, a limping Danny helped Robert Milto inspect the newly branded calves to ensure there was no excess bleeding or other damage. Many of the animals showed slight stiffness, but, for the most part, they just wanted to find their mothers. Satisfied for the moment, the men then began to haze the young bovines into the holding field to join their frantic mothers. As the two herds merged, the din of bellowing that had faded to a constant level of background noise, doubled and rose to a deafening roar with the occasional individual bellow breaking loud above the rest. A considerable amount of time is required for five hundred cows and calves to sort out who belongs to who and they make no mistakes. A thirsty calf will try to adopt the first udder it sees but the mothers are more particular.
“We'll leave the gates open so they have access to the mill,” Robert Milto said, “and I'll come back later to check one more time. If they're all mothered up, I'll turn them loose before dark.”
Horses were watered and those that had been hauled to the corrals were loaded in their respective trailers. It was decided that the round-up horses would spend another night in the horse pen. They were led to water at the mill and Milt poured each a ration of oats. She took the burlap sack which served as feed bag over to the small pen where the crippled Charolais bull was corralled and gave him a generous portion. She smiled when the young bovine greedily fed on the grain - a sure sign he was on the road to better health.
Ben, with a startlingly white bandage over the cut on his head, brought a pail of water from the trough. Brenda followed behind, toting a rubber feeder which had been near the mill serving as a dispenser for mineral supplement. Brenda dropped the container inside the pen and Ben dumped the water in it, saying, “That ought to hold him 'til mornin'.”
Danny and Robert Milto had come over to check on the Charolais' progress and the rancher proudly recited the determined effort Benny and Milt had exhibited in preserving the life of the young bull. Though not from a cattleman's background, the telephone lineman could not fail to detect the obvious quality of blood lines in the lame animal, “Good thing they were able to save him.”
Many of the vehicles had departed, heading back to the ranch yard. The ladies, except for Brenda, who had arrived in Leonard Yeast's half ton, were the first to leave, but not before Shaun and Dennis Miller had wrested the beer tub from the back of the truck and moved it to their pickup where most of the young 'rasslers' were now enjoying a boisterous conversation.
“Come on over for a beer,” Shaun called to the group gathered at the bull's pen.
“Yeah, Ben, if your wife will let you,” Dennis added, eliciting loud guffaws from his comrades.
By the time Danny and the remainder of the branding crew were ready to leave the corrals, the bawling of the herd had begun to subside; mothers and babes were reunited. The searing sun, like Hell's own branding iron earlier in the day, had begun to relinquish the smoking heat as it sank to summer's five o'clock position. A faint haze, more scent than visible, of alkali dust hung in the air around the pens and Danny inhaled the view as he stood beside the opened door of the Miller's pickup.
A host of subtle sensations stopped time to hold the moment.
His own perspiration mixed with the dust and grime of the corral floor caked Danny's body and traces of cow manure and blood clung to his jeans. The smell of the burning calf hair permeated his clothes. Horse sweat and saddle leather, even the faint hempen odour of the lariats still teased his nostrils. Distant sounds echoing back reverberated in this moment's reflection. He heard the shouts of the 'rasslers', the sizzle of the branding iron, the bawling of the calves above the distant blended roar of the cows, the wind of the cowboys' whirling loops, the jingle of rowels on spurred boots, grunts of the roping ponies straining to drag and anchor struggling calves, creaking saddles and cussing cowboys. He felt again the jerk of the rope in his gloved hands, the burn of hemp across a bare forearm, the dull ache in his calf-kicked knee and the tired but uncomplaining strain in every muscle and sinew….
The interlude vanished abruptly as Shaun Miller said quietly, “You coming, Danny?”
“Oh! Sorry, my mind just wandered off for a moment.” Favouring the sore leg, Danny hopped into the cab and said, “That was a really good day.”
The pole lead the lineman now worked on ran parallel to a recently upgraded trail that led to the new farm location of Kent Miller. The young farmer and his bride, Wendy, had recently moved their mobile trailer home from its temporary residence at his father's farm. They were in the process of setting up their own establishment in a beautifully treed yard, abandoned during the 'Dirty Thirties' by the original homesteaders.
The new double strand of steel line ran two miles north from an existing east-west triple circuit, six pin crossarm lead. The line crew hired by the rural telephone company had set the poles and were now stringing the steel. Danny assisted with the tying in of the open wire. This job necessitated climbing each pole to fasten the line to heavy glass insulators. The insulators were threaded on sturdy oaken side-blocks which had been double spiked on opposite sides of the telephone poles near the top. Usually, for this job, the lineman would strap a bundle of tie wires to his climbing belt and hike down the line, attending each new pole as he reached it, but today the sore knee forced him to drive his line truck between spans. Unfortunately, climbing in and out of the vehicle proved almost as painful as walking.
The fuzzy beer haze of a small hangover gradually dissipated and, as the lineman worked methodically, the stiff and sore muscles, unused to the labour of calf wrestling, limbered up; even the pain in the right leg faded to a dull ache. Danny's thoughts returned to the branding….
The evening that followed turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable occasion. By the time the last of the crew had reached the ranch, those in charge of preparing the meal were almost ready to ring the dinner bell. Towels, wash basins, soap and water were set up on the porch for the help to scrub up, as many of the young lads were too reticent to venture inside the big ranch house. They filed past, jostling one another and keeping up a constant banter. After a hasty wash they gravitated toward the barbecue pit. Stan had reopened the subterranean oven to extract the roasts of beef. The delicious scent was overpowering as the Norwegian chef opened the first package in preparation for carving.
Myrna Yeast's shrill and commanding voice caught everyone's attention as she emerged from the house with a large tray held above, or more accurately, resting upon her ample bosom. Almost as round as she was tall, Myrna's culinary skills were well known in the district. Her husband Leonard, a comparatively spare man, said affectionately that though his wife seldom missed watching an episode of Ed Allen's fitness program on television she never seemed to lose much weight. Her offering consisted of little roasted meat morsels skewered on wooden tooth picks and spread out on the serving platter. With a flourish she placed the hors d'oeuvre on the nearest table.
“Now, hold on a minute,” she addressed the crowd, “I understand Dr. O'Brien's nephew is responsible for collecting most of these treats so, let him be the first to sample.” Tom O'Brien tried to duck out of sight behind a group of branding hands but was ushered to the fore and propelled reluctantly toward Mrs. Yeast, who waited with a mischievous glint in her eye.
“Go on, Tom, try one. You can't be a bull rider if you don't eat Prairie Oysters,” Ben said.
The Torontonian paled slightly and his Adam's Apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed.
“Well, come on, lad, eat 'em while they're hot,” Myrna said.
The crowd waited in amused silence as Tom delicately picked up a tooth pick and briefly examined the oyster. With a flare he waved it under his nose, sniffed twice, then popped the morsel into his mouth. The youth closed his eyes and chewed thoughtfully, savouring the attention as well as the tidbit.
“Ah… not too dry… not too sweet… a mild but distinct 'nutty' flavour; a delicious and rare vintage indeed.”
He helped himself to a second.
Danny gorged himself on the fantastic feast the Milto family provided. Stan Olsen's pit barbecued beef topped even the chef's own expectations. The ravenous branding crew returned for second and, in several instances, third helpings of roast, potato salad, baked beans and fresh dinner buns loaded with homemade butter. Danny overheard Leonard Yeast complimenting Constance Milto, “You're one helluva woman, Connie,” he said. “Ride a danged horse rounding up cows all one day and the next, cook up a feast like this.”
“Why, thank you for the compliment, Leonard, but I really must share the credit for the meal with all this 'danged' good help I've had.”
Then, just when everyone appeared ready to split at the seams, Claudette St. Jacques, Val Reid and Myrna Yeast dished up huge bowls of home made ice cream. Myrna pointed out that the delicious dessert was compliments of Ben Collin's jersey cow, Josie.
“Pete Liscombe's old cow,” Lou said.
“By the way, where is Pete today?” Fred Moffat asked of Lou as Val Reid passed him a heaping bowl of ice cream.
“He's out west visiting a brother or sister or some other relate.”
“I guess haying time isn't a concern for Pete no more,” Fred said.
The big meal had temporarily stemmed the beer tide for Danny, probably saving him from a more severe headache today. He wondered how his branding cohorts had fared. The younger cowboys had washed down the supper, even the ice cream, with a steady flow of ale; most of them stretched out on the green lawn grass with a fresh bottle after the feast.
Thoughts of drinking a cold beer did not appeal to Danny this morning….
The ladies, including Dr. O'Brien's wife, Rita, who had arrived with Vera Mitchell in time for the supper, were enjoying a few glasses of wine while attending to the crew. Myrna Yeast re-enacted Tom O'Brien's oyster test to the great amusement of her companions.
Sven Larson had disappeared to his bunkhouse immediately following the meal. He emerged, clean shaven, scrubbed almost pink, his greying hair slicked down. He had a fresh white shirt and an almost new pair of blue jeans.
Paying no attention as Shaun Miller whistled and crowed, “Holy cow, Sven, Benny ain't gettin' married today,” the hired man walked a determined bee line toward the group of ladies. Vera Mitchell stepped forward, her hands outstretched, to meet him. “You look nice, Sven,” she said.
A slight breeze would have floored the entire gobsmacked crowd.
As one, they stared open mouthed and speechless. All the gossips, the 'rubber-necks' on the party lines, the prairie rumour mill, and even coffee row had not an inkling of the tender affection blooming right under their collective noses.
Sven reached in his pocket and pulled out a small item that glinted in the evening sun. Still holding the hand of the lady most well known by her voice saying “Operator,” he addressed the group. “Yo'ng Benny, he's not the only von to be getting married,” and he slipped the tiny ring on the unresisting finger.
Several of the ladies had a tear in their eye. Robert Milto shook Sven's hand, “Congratulations… to both of you!”
Dennis Miller hooted, “Holy sh… cow! Is there anybody else?” And then, dropping to one knee, called across the circle, “Hey, Milt, will you marry me?”
Later, Vera confided to Danny, who was even more astonished than the others, that the couple had chosen to make the announcement at the branding event so that a reasonable group of friends would have the information first hand and not be disappointed to hear it as gossip. Danny said, “Perhaps you should have rung out a 'General' from the office!”
Vera was vague in her response when Mrs. O'Brien inquired as to plans for the soon-to-be-new couple's future.
“We aren't sure yet… My job as telephone operator will soon be defunct. Maybe Danny can fill you in on those details”
Rita O'Brien shifted her focus to the lineman as folks who had overheard Vera tuned in to the conversation.
“Well,” Danny said, “Stockton is advancing a step in the communications industry; over the course of the next year or so all the phones will be changed to rotary dial. No more cranks. And with the dial phones comes mechanical switching, which eliminates Vera's operator position.”
An excited murmur rippled through the crowd and the telephone man became the centre of attention.
“How will we call long distance then, Danny?” Fred asked.
“There will be people in the bigger centres to handle the traffic, but 'out of' and 'in to' Stockton calls will be completely automated.”
“No more 'Generals',” Vera smiled sadly.
Connie Milto, a glass of wine in her hand, said, “New phones! Will they have Name and Number display?”
Robert Milto turned a surprised glance at his wife who paled, then blushed scarlet.
“Will they have what?” Danny asked.
“Connie,” Robert chastised, “You've been reading too much science fiction. Next thing you'll expect them to put a man on the moon.”
Fred Moffat interjected, “Hey, that might happen sooner than we think. I read an article the other day that said the Americans are planning a manned launch to the moon next year.”
Constance Milto's words drifted on the outer rim of Danny's conscience as he spurred in the maiden tracks to the top of the next new pole on this bright sunny morning.
“Name and number display,” he repeated aloud. “What futuristic fiction magazine had she been reading?” Deft fingers quickly double looped the middle portion of the tie wire around the insulator and spun the tails out both ways along the steel line. Belted in at the top, the lineman removed his supple gauntlet gloves and set them on the pole. He brushed sweat from his forehead with a sleeved arm and shifted his hip to a more comfortable position. A light stab of pain from the bruised knee forced him to readjust again, then, resting comfortably, Danny reviewed yesterday's scene in his mind's eye. The sudden shocked look on Robert Milto's features seemed an overreaction for his wife's exuberant outburst and why had she coloured so rapidly after saying it? Admittedly, everyone was excited about the prospect of having the new dial telephones as they had all seen them in the city or, at the least, on television. This will be a big step toward modernization, the rural people believed, but still, Danny considered, something wasn't quite kosher with the Miltos' response.
His thoughts returned to the present. From his lofty perch, the lineman gazed out across the endless chequerboard patchwork of brown summerfallow and lush green crops that, so far, showed great promise for harvest. Not a cloud or jet stream interrupted the incredible pristine blue of an infinite western sky, seemingly oblivious to direction or horizon. The still and tranquil beauty of this prairie landscape tugged at the heartstrings though he had not been not born and bred to it.
Where did Robert and Connie Milto fit in, he wondered. There wasn't an abundance of information regarding their past, although it was rumoured that the rancher had important connections with a big university down east. Danny himself had heard Robert speak of Guelph, Ontario, but that was in regard to his purebred cattle and the A.I. program.
Spiralling dust boiling skyward along the road indicated the approach of a vehicle. As it came into view, Danny recognized the unit as belonging to the line crew. Quickly he descended the pole and crossed the ditch to meet the oncoming truck.
The line contractor, George Arnault, was tall and heavy set. He sported a huge paunch that had served well as temporary holding tank for untold gallons of ale. Danny wondered how the fellow could spur up and down the poles without repeatedly impaling himself with a belly full of slivers. In his fifties with a full head of hair greying at the sides, the big man exuded conviviality with his ready toothy smile and hearty laugh. There was a trace of French accent in his speech though he often exercised expletives from many languages.
The window was down on the driver's side and George was bellowing good naturedly before the truck rolled to a stop.
“Oh, my boys can tie that line in for you, young Daniel. Hell's Bell's, that's what I pay 'em for.”
The door burst open and the big man swung one leg out which offset his stomach. It rolled out, pulling the remainder of his body with it.
“God, it's hot! It's hot. A man ought to be in the beer hall on a day like this. You got any cold beer, Daniel? We only brung water.”
Not waiting for a reply he continued, “We have the anchors in on the dogleg up at the lad's yard, so if you want to string the braided wire and give him his #$!#* phone, we'll have the line up for you in damn short order.”
“Okay,” Danny agreed, knowing argument would have been futile. “I'll hang the box and pound a ground rod for the lightning arrestor.”
“Oh, don't you go beating in no ground rods in this heat. One o' my boys can do that too. It's a character builder for 'em. I'll go throw the knife switch and she should be humming like a new bride by the time you're ready.”
Danny had to give the man plenty of credit. Although the most likely candidate for heart trouble the young lineman had ever seen, no grass grew round the contractor's feet while on the job. George and his crew were fast, efficient and conscientious.
The contractor had confided to Danny that the line construction business would probably not last much longer. “They're putting her all underground, Daniel. Near the #$!#* cities, she's all being buried now. I'm gonna have to hang up my spurs and buy a #$!#* cable plowing outfit. Besides that, the damn government phone outfit is trying to crowd out all the rural companies like yours. Oh, it won't be tomorrow or next week, but I tell you now, the #$!$* will have it all within ten years.”
Danny nodded his agreement as the contractor lapsed into a spiel on another tangent. Danny Reid had some ideas about the future of communications as well. Maybe someday there would even be name and number display.
Kent Miller was repairing a sickle mower when Danny drove into the young farmer's verdant but neglected yard. Kent will have this place looking shipshape before long, he thought.
“Still limping, I see,” the farmer said by way of greeting. “That calf must have caught you a good one.”
“It's getting better all the time,” Danny said. “Haying time, is it?”
“Pretty soon… there's a dandy crop out there if we can put it up dry.”
“Not much rain in the sky today. Make hay while the sun shines.”
Kent and Wendy did not have a telephone in their mobile unit while living in his parents' yard; it was just about as handy to go over to the main house to make a call, Kent felt. With everyone on party lines, privacy wasn't a concern anyway.
“Had lunch, Danny?” Kent asked.
“No, but I packed one along today, thanks, Kent. It might be best for appearance sake if I eat with the line crew today.”
“Well, you're sure welcome, how about a coffee?”
Danny shook his head, “No, thanks, I best hang this phone up for you and make sure it works.”
The second of George Arnault's two line trucks pulled into the yard. A tow-headed lad of about seventeen hopped out and joined Kent and Danny. After a brief greeting he stood to one side waiting for Danny's instruction.
The trio went to the newly positioned mobile home and Danny pointed out where the young lineman should pound in the 8 foot galvanized ground rod. Kent showed Danny where he and Wendy wanted the telephone box installed then went back to work on his mower.
There was no weather skirting installed on the trailer as yet so running the wire from lightning arrestor to the phone was a matter of a few minutes work. George Arnault's helper had the ground rod pounded in place and began to string the 'drop' wire from a mast pole beside the home to the first ?or last, depending on your point of view? pole of the open wire lead. Meanwhile, Danny installed the outdoor protector and made the termination.
When the installation was complete to Danny's satisfaction and the new Mallory batteries were in place, he lifted the receiver, listened to see if the line was busy, and gave the crank a turn to signal the operator.
Vera Mitchell's voice responded seconds later, “Operator.”
“Hi, Vera, it's Danny.”
“Oh, ready to test the new Miller phone, are you?”
“You always know where I am, don't you? Say, how is the new bride-elect today?”
“Pretty spry, I suppose,” she laughed. “That was a lovely time at the Miltos' ranch yesterday. And all that delicious food! I ate too much.”
Shifting the conversation, Danny said, “Kent is only the sixth subscriber on this 'bunch block' so I guess his ring will be a code 3?”
“That's right; on the tip,” Vera confirmed.
'On the tip' referred to the side of the line the customer's bells should be set. All lines were in pairs: tip and ring; the 'talk path' carried out over this loop combination, but bells were set up to ring 'tip' to ground or 'ring' to ground so that only one side of a party line would hear the bells ring, although everyone could hear the conversation if they lifted their receiver. A code three ring was a combination of one long ring, followed by a half ring ?in the vernacular? a long and a short.
“Could you give me a burst on the tip side, please, and I'll set up the bells.
“Circuit 8, ring code 3, coming up,” Vera said.
The new set worked perfectly and Danny left the trailer to go out into the yard again.
“I heard the phone ring, so I guess you're finished with me?” the lad from the line crew asked.
“That's all, thanks for the help.”
The helper started his line truck and drove out of the yard while Danny rejoined Kent Miller and gave him his line information.
“Your number is 8r3, Kent. There are five more subscribers besides yourself on this circuit. It is smaller than most of the bunching blocks, but try to avoid tying the line up for too long.”
Kent grinned, “I don't use it much at all but when Wendy gets to jawing with her mother, it can go on.”
Danny said, “Vera will let her know if they're too long winded.”
“So, Vera Mitchell is marrying Sven Larson.” Kent said. “That was the biggest surprise I've had since Wendy agreed to marry me.”
“Apparently Sven isn't the confirmed bachelor everyone thought and I've spent a lot of time talking with Vera over the past few years… She had the wool over my eyes too.”
“I'll bet Robert Milto would rather cut off his right arm than lose Sven.”
Conversation shifted to the branding and Danny soon took his leave to join George Arnault and his crew for a lunch on the tailgate of a line truck.
That evening, Danny puzzled again over the Miltos' strange words and reactions to the announcement that dial phones were coming to Stockton. He confided in his wife, but she afforded no solution.
“I missed that part of the conversation. What could Connie have meant anyway? What do you think 'Name and number display' are?”
Danny shrugged, “It's a term I've heard somewhere before and I don't read 'futuristic science fiction' unless it's written by Jules Verne.”
Danny filed the remark in the recesses of his mind for possible later reference but vowed to pay close attention to what the Miltos were saying. There were several other statements filed away too, but he failed to recall them at the moment.
“I remember the excitement in the community while we awaited the arrival of the dial office and the new telephones. Stockton was slated for modernization! The cumbersome oak boxes with their heavy receivers and cranks were so large compared to the sleek new dial wall and desk models of the time; no one imagined push button numbers, rural private lines, or cell phones.”
Submitted by Wendy Miller as told by the late Vera Larson (Mitchell)
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