Wednesday, April 8, 2026

Time and Technology

 




Time and Technology


When I grew up in the 1950’s my bedroom was in the attic of our house.  My sisters each got a bedroom on the main floor as did my parents of course.  Their, master bedroom was strategically placed off of the kitchen.  The house had been designed by a farmer from the Eastern Block so as you can imagine was not filled with aesthetic embellishments.  It stands to reason my brother and I would be delegated to the attic, but in the end a place we cherished.  It afforded us space.  Our room, although shared, took up a third of the floor space of the attic once converted and insulated.  

It also gave us our own private entrance and exit, mind you it was through a window, across the porch roof down a plum tree, to ground zero in the back yard.  The only consideration or danger point in using this exit strategy was that the descent via the tree took us past the kitchen window which was my mother’s domain.  Knowing my mother’s position within the house at any given time made our movements safe and secure.  I’m not saying we were bad kids or up to mischief, but its always better to play it safe.  Suffice it to say, we were never caught and by writing this some 65 years later I have likely past any reasonable statute of limitations.  We did of course, with friends, roam the neighbourhood at night with a sense of adventure, no harm was done and no people or pets were ever harmed.

My brother and I did not have a radio, that didn’t come until the next decade when transistors became available.  I’m not saying we were poor but we did however have an upright, Edison Diamond Disk Sheraton Model 1919, Phonograph player.  With this we had about 50 to 60 vinyl disks, about a quarter of an inch in thickness with all of the hottest hits from 1910 through to 1920.  My brother, or I would crank the handle on the side of the cabinet in order to get the disk up to speed, so we could listen to songs popular some thirty to  forty years before we were born.  “What’ll I Do” by Lewis James, “It Ain’t Gonna Rain NoMo” Wendell Hall, “I’ve Had 57 Varieties of Sweethearts” by Bill Jones, the list goes on. We also had a wide selection of Hawaiian music, and dance music.  It’s all in the Library of Congress.  

Another unique musical feature we had in our house growing up, and ours is not a musical family, was an upright player piano. Ours was built sometime after World War I and ironically went out of popularity because of the Edison Phonograph player, the same standing in my bedroom.  In 1924 over 200 000 player pianos were sold during peak popularity.  Ours was a Baldwin and I have to say in enriched my fantasy world of becoming a world class pianist yet never inspired me to actually learn how to play for real.  I did however develop amazing calf muscles from the constant pedalling required to keep up the air pressure to make the music.  In a way the rolls of music with their many perforations was a premature type of computer programming.  The position of each slot in the roll of paper signals a flow of air which than triggers one of the 88 keys on the key board.  One becomes an expert in minutes. 

Sadly, having these modern miracles at my finger tips as a child did not turn me into a musical prodigy.  I never could hold a tune or play an instrument, but I do appreciate music.  I enjoy history and the progression of technology over time.  It raises the question what do young people have in their bedrooms today? What lessons are they learning from their various monitors.  I guess only time will tell. TIC TOC.

Saturday, March 28, 2026

The last pay phone in NYC




 The Last Payphone in New York City

They came in bursts and thrusts,

Coins clinking like small promises,

Hands trembling in winter air,

Lovers pressed close beneath my

Scratched glass,

Breath fogged my panes

As if they could keep each other warm

Through copper wires.

I carried urgency.

Births. Deaths.Missed trains.

“I’m sorry.”

“I love you.”

“I’ll be there.”

My cord stretched with longing.

Times Square was never quiet,

But once,

The noise bent towards me.

Neon flicked across my metal skin,

Taxis hissed,

And still-

Someone would stop,

Pat their pockets,

And find me

Like a lighthouse of

communication.

I was a fixed point

In a city that refused to be still

That always talked

But then, slowly

The silence began,

Not all at once

No,

In crept in like rust.

At first

People still approached me

Out of habit,

Fingers brushing my receiver

Tentative,

Before retreating,

As if rememberingI had already died.

They stood often

Inches away,

Heads bowed

But not in prayer.

Their thumbs frantically

moved,

Their eyes glowed.

Entire conversations unfolded

Without a single coin,

Without a single need for me

I listened anyway

To laughter that never touched

My wires.

To arguments whispered into

Glass screens.

Enhancing loniness,

Louder than anything I had ever carried

And I was helpless.

Eventually, I became but a relic

Before I was moved.

Children pointed at me

As if a were a fossil

“What is that?”

That

Not who,Never who,

Just an irrelevant machine

Old useless, worn.

The abuse came next.

Not really cruel at first,

Just careless,

Thoughtless.

Stickers layered over my instructions.

Pages ripped out my phone book

useless below me

Gum pressed into my coin slot,

My receiver left dangling

Like a broken limb.

Then sharper things

Graffiti carved Ito my side,

Names that would outlast me,Declarations of love

That would not.

I held them all.

As I held everything

Nights grew longer.

No coins.

No voices.

Only the hum of electricity

Still running through me

Out of habit a sign of life

Even the pigeons stopped landing.

I began to wonder

An existential crisis

Did I imagine it all

The urgency

The need

The way people once leaned into me

As if I were

The only bridge

Between them and the world.

The day they came to take me

It was quiet. No ceremony.

No crowd.

Just workers with tools,

Unscrewed my purpose

Disconnected me

Bolt by bolt.

I wanted to ring out

In protest

Just once

To prove I was vital

Still here

But no was was calling any more

They lifted me like I weighed nothing

Carried me by the place I had stood

For decades.

Times Square didn’t miss a beat.

Why would it. It had already forgotten me.

Now I stand still again

This stillness is different

Clean.

Polished.Explained in detail.

A small plaque beside me

Tells my history

In tidy concise sentences

“Public Pay Telephone”

Late 20th century-early 21st Century.”

People gather.

They look at me know with curiosity.

They pick up my receiver

Smile, and pose for pictures

With their “cell” phones

I am iconic

Nostalgic

Amazing

No one calls me necessary

Sometimes when the museum is quiet,

I imagine the echo

Of a coin dropping

A voice,

Urgent and alive,

Reaching for me

Like I mattered

And for a moment

Just a moment

I am needed

But the line is dead.

I am preserved

Perfectly,

In my lonliness.

Marty Rempel

Inspired by the song by the New Pornographers about the last payphone in NYC

titled, “Ballad of the Last Payphone,” April 2025. It is housed in the Museum of

New York City. Originally located in Times Square on 7th Ave and West 50th

Street. It is part of the “Before Computers Display.” It was removed May 202