Person-to-person

To me, as a child growing up in California, the 'East Coast' was a magical, faraway land. My grandparents lived there, with my aunts and uncles and cousins: one set (my mother's) in and around Brooklyn; the other, my father's family, in Baltimore. Every couple of years we would go 'back East' to see them, on a plane, dressed up in our finest clothing. In the alternate years, one or the other set of grandparents usually came to stay with us for several weeks.

We spoke to them on the phone once a month or so. My father's parents, Grandma Dorothy and Grandpa Ben, were the frugal sort, and wanted to be sure their toll money went to good use. Calling person-to-person via the operator would ensure that my father was home, but that type of call cost more. So they devised a trick, probably fraud, now that I think about it. From their apartment in Baltimore, they dialled 'zero' and requested an operator-assisted 'person-to-person' phone call to Diane (the name of my eldest cousin, who lived in Baltimore) at my family's number. The operator rang it, and, with my grandparents listening in in the background (but not allowed to speak), the operator would say to whomever answered, "Person-to-person for Diane. Is she there?"

Then came our part of the ruse. It was always exciting to be the one to take that call. We knew the drill, practiced it just as we did fire drills and 'drop drills' (for nuclear bombs or earthquakes) at school. "Mom!" I would shout, if I had struck lucky that time. "Is Diane here?"

My mom would call back at the top of her lungs, "No, I don't think so!"

Then I would yell, "Dad! Is Diane here?"

"No, she's not!" he would shout.

"No," I would return to the operator, trying to sound sorrowful. "She's not here right now."

"Caller, your party is not there," the operator would relay to my grandparents, who had of course heard the whole hullabaloo. "Would you like to continue the call?"

"No, thank you, dear," my grandmother would say. "Goodbye."

Then my family would gather round the phone in the den and wait. My grandparents, now assured that both son and daughter-in-law were at home, called us at the lower, unassisted long-distance rate. For my sisters and me, the conversation itself was stilted, awkward; we hardly knew these people. ("How is school?" "Fine." "Are you studying hard?" "Yes.") All the fun was in the preparation. (My other grandparents simply phoned, which had no thrill at all.)

This week my own parents are visiting London. They have just landed; I know, because my dad texted me. "Arrived. Snowy!" We'll likely speak later. My cousin Marcia, who is with them, had already sent me an email using the plane's wifi, inviting my husband and me to stay at her house when we are in northern California next month. My children have lived most of their lives thousands or hundreds of miles from both sets of grandparents, yet, thanks to marvelous inventions and democratization of long-distance travel, the two generations have a close relationship.

I know, I know, I know. Time to stop being amazed by the speed of technological development. When I was little I used to ask my mother to tell me about her childhood 'in the olden days', and she obliged, relating tales of the ice-man delivering blocks of ice in his horse-drawn cart, and her own grandfather's endless fascination with the refrigerator that he eventually bought. How could warm air coming out the bottom be linked to the cold inside?

I laughed at those stories and shook my head at such antiquated grownups. Now I fear I am one myself.  Just the other day, when I had to ask for help with Instagram or maybe Snapchat, my daughter said,"You really are olden times, aren't you?" and shook her head. Fondly, I hope.