The Information generation
Since I entered my 70s a few year back, I find myself becoming increasingly nostalgic. I suppose it’s natural to think of years gone by as a better, simpler time. Mainly, I become nostalgic when I hear about the disappearance of things from my childhood days. Over the past few months, I’ve written about the closing of the last Howard Johnson’s restaurant and the likely end of Sears department stores. Now I see that AT&T has discontinued its 411 directory assistance service.
411 used to be called “Information.” Before the days of the internet and ubiquitous cellphones, when you didn’t have someone’s phone number you’d dial 411 and an operator – usually a woman – would provide it for you if you knew the city and, better yet, an address. But in 1968, AT&T began calling the service “directory assistance” because too many people took “information” to mean that they could call and ask any question. “How do I prepare my Thanksgiving turkey?” “Who won the ballgame?”
But 411 finally died, AT&T says, because most people now use the internet to look up addresses and phone numbers. Telephone books are still available, but I don’t recall the last phone book I saw, let alone used. I store all my frequently called numbers in my cellphone. Another sure sign that I’m aging is that although I still remember my parents’ phone number from 1954, I don’t know the current numbers of most of my friends. Or even my son’s. Without my cellphone, I’d be forced to drive to his house, pound on the door and ask him for his phone number, then drive back home and call him.
I suppose, though, that I’m not really nostalgic about the demise of 411. At least not as much as I am about other things from my childhood. For example, I have an old-fashioned aluminum ice cream scoop that I found at an estate sale, hidden among other kitchen utensils. My mom had one, so I bought it for $1. When you press a spring-loaded lever near the scoop’s handle, a tongue in the center of the scoop pushes the ice cream out. Sorcery!
I haven’t been to an estate sale for perhaps five years. When I did go, I spent much of my time walking around, pointing at things and saying to whoever might listen, “My (insert long-dead relative) had one of those!” This is what made me buy a green ceramic “TV lamp” shaped like a stalking panther. My maternal grandparents had a black one atop their small set, and its glowing eyes entranced me. TV lamps were common in the 1950s: consensus was that the light from the glowing CRT tube of a TV would damage your eyes. Low-wattage bulbs inserted in a cavity in the back of the lamp cast an indirect glow that qualifies as mood lighting. The lamps were meant to provide an additional light source to offset the CRT glare and save your eyes.
But, seeing as how I started wearing glasses in fourth grade, I guess the theory was bogus – just like those X-Ray Specs I bought that are supposed to let you see through clothing.
I’m sure glad I paid only $15 for them.