The Old Crank Phone

It really does not seem like so many years ago I regularly visited my grandparents farm. While visiting my grandparents, the old crank phone often rang with two short rings and one long ring. The hardwood, crank-type phone hung on a hallway wall -- just at the foot of the stairs.

Truthfully, I never learned to use a crank phone. During the years my grandparents lived on the farm I simply never grew tall enough to reach the large rectangular phone box. Indeed, the first phone my parents allowed me to use had a dial in the base. But, the phone I always wanted to use was the one my grandmother regularly stood before. I always enjoyed watching her as she picked up the oddly shaped black hand-piece -- attached to the side of the rectangular wooden box -- stood on her tiptoes, and shouted into a long metal cone. The metal cone protruded from the face of the wooden box.

“Hello, yes, yes, this is Blanche. Cora, can you hear me?” Seemed to be the opening scenario of each phone conversation. If the call was for my grandmother it was usually from her sister - Cora.

Occasionally, she would interrupt her conversation and I would hear phrases like “Cora, someone just picked up...Wilma is that you?” Often it would be Wilma or one of many other neighbors. Usually, the conversation would continue, in an older version of a three party conference. This common practice never seemed to bother anyone. At least I never heard any of my rural relatives complain.

I surmise that there was an unwritten rule, which when someone really needed to use the phone for a private call, all they had to do was simply ask to use the line for a few minutes. Of course, if the request sounded urgent, then at least six other receivers would go off hook a minute after the caller had a chance to establish the call, or in terms of my Grandmother’s day, call “Central.” Notably, the rural party line was the fastest news media in the county.

The base of the old crank phone housed two batteries that seemed to wear out on a regular basis. I was always delighted when my grandmother changed the batteries. I always imaged all of the great things I could do with the giant cylinders -- if only my grandmother would allow me to add the batteries to my toy collection.

A thunderstorm meant that even if the phone rang, no person in the house would go within ten feet of the rectangular box. The day after a thunderstorm the phone remained idle; it never rang, nor did anyone ever attempt to call out. The assumption was that the phone would not work -- I think my grandparents based this assumption on experience.

A crank phone was rural America’s link to the outside world. Today, the crank pone is found only in museums or in a personal collection. Occasionally, the beautiful wooden boxes are found as modified decorator telephones. In its most humiliating state, some individuals use the old crank phone as a flower pot.

The beautiful hardwood phones of my Grandmother’s era are just memories for most North Carolinians. Occasionally, there are reminders of their charm, reminders captured in Rockwell paintings or period movies.

My memories of the crank phone are more personal. These memories center around my grandmother--hair in a bun-- standing on her tip toes, one hand-- breaking beans--he other hand holding the black earpiece. Her voice is etched into my memory, “Well, Cora, I’ve got to let you go now, I see Willie coming up the road. See you Sunday. Bye, now,” and seven hanging-up clicks heard on the line.