The Princess

             In 1963, other than a date to the high school dance and a LadyBug shirt dress, what more could a teen girl want? Not that I recall asking for a Princess phone; my parents, however, gave me a powder blue one for Christmas, with a rotary dial that did double-duty as a night light.

            Without a separate line, of course, my Princess phone operated as an additional telephone set on one home line. Same phone number as our home phone, same line as the parents who would pick up the phone and say “Hang up, now,” that phone hosted multiple viewing parties after it finally was installed.

            Rather than lounging across my bed to talk with the friends I’d only seen a few hours before in the halls of my high school, I sat with my back to the bedroom wall, behind the bed, the Princess herself resting on the carpet beside me, her receiver clutched in my hand and “glued to my ear.” Best girl friends and I were leery of telling too many secrets because nosy brothers could, with great stealth, listen in on conversations. The Princess phone was primarily a teen girl status symbol, like the latest and greatest IPhone today.

            Unlike today, however, we had no call-waiting, no caller ID. We had to be respectful of time limits because the operator could break in to say, “There’s an emergency call for this number.” We would be in deep, dark trouble for playing pranks using the phone, like calling a random number to ask “Is your refrigerator running?” A simple thumb and forefinger could press a lever to release the plug from the jack and the phone could disappear as quickly as it appeared.

            The only question my brother asked as I left for college: “Can I have your phone?” He did not care that it was a pretty, blue Princess. I did; I declined his request.

            I loved that Princess phone and I used it until I married, leaving my parents’ home for my own.