Siri’s annoyed reply was “I don’t know what you mean by ‘I want my mommy’ How about a web search for it?” Her search disappointed. “Siri, I want my mommy.” I demanded to my iPhone 4. Our world was small, contained and very personal. Our phone number, Metuchen six 7132W, was a party (i.e., shared) line and it was quite normal to argue or trade gossip with or eavesdrop on whomever was there when you picked up the receiver. There were no rotary dials, nor were there area codes or dial tones. Mom rushed right home.īack in the 1950s the telephone operator in our borough, Metuchen, New Jersey, connected us to the world-the shoe store, the corner store, the high school, the fire department and our aunts Lois, Betty, Doodle, Danny, Peggy, Mary and Cecelia. I’ll find her.” She called our aunt Cecelia up the street. “I want my mommy!” she demanded to the switchboard operator, who replied. Our baby sitter was bugging this six year old. Its cloth-covered cord hung like a snake from the wall-mounted cradle in our kitchen. My big sister Cissie spoke directly into the mouthpiece of our big black telephone receiver, clutched awkwardly in her little hands.
