Do you remember your first job? I do. It was a long time ago, but is still fresh in my memory. It was 1944 when I moved in with the telephone operator in our “the wide spot in the road” community. I was in the tenth grade. My folks were in the midst of the in-fighting leading up to their divorce. I looked for a way out of the tensions at home. When the job became available, I jumped at it.

Back in the day, Ma Bell and AT & T didn't rule the telephone scene. Until the end of World War II many small communities had a cooperative form of telephone service. We were still using the old fashioned battery powered crank wall mounted system to make a call. The same as in the old time movies. Rural telephone service only became widely available in the 20s. My dad, before his marriage to Mom, worked in setting poles and stringing lines all over the state.

There were ten subscribers on a line. Each one owned their own phone and was responsible for its upkeep and repair. There was a small yearly service charge to help maintain the switchboard that connected us to the outside world. Every call outside our area had a long distance charge. The operator would switch you to any customer on other lines in the system for free. You could call anyone on your line without going through the operator.

Each subscriber was assigned a ring composed of long and short components determined by how long you turned the crank. My folks phone number was 801. That meant we were on line number eight and the one meant one long and one short ring. All the others on line #8 could hear the ring. They were to only answer their own ring. To contact the operator, you cranked one long ring and repeated it until she answered you.

However, if there was something going on in our house, you could be sure at least half the other subscribers were listening in. My dad would get so mad trying to make a call that he would yell, “Mrs. Lacey, get off the line!” He picked on her because after she had her stroke she had her telephone moved next to her bed. He even went further by naming his milk cows after the neighborhood busy-bodies. Sound carried down the hill from our barn to the crossroads community. They could hear Dad loud and clear calling his cows in for milking. “Here, bossy! Come on Mrs. Lacy! Get in here, Mrs. Owens!” Dad was not popular around there, but he didn't care, calling the ladies of the community a variety of unsavory names.

Miss Leggett, in her fifties, operated the switchboard. She lived alone and seldom had company. I was a welcome addition to her household. My job was to operate the switchoard from the time I got off the school bus until I went to bed and on weekends. That was the most active time among the callers. I kept busy and the time passed quickly. The best part was that I was avoiding the tensions at home. I received no pay, just board and room. It was a good arrangement for both Miss Leggett and me.

There are all kinds of first jobs, some better than others. I grew up in an era when babysitting was not an option. Back in the day, the children went with their parents or a family member watched over them while they were gone. It was the time of the extended family. Most women did not work outside the home. Jobs for girls were hard to find.