There was no farewell ceremony for the telephone book. No final salute to the Fotomat, the road atlas or the newspaper TV listings.
One day these things were simply part of everyday life. Then, without our noticing, they weren't.
Think about it. When was the last time you used an address book? Called 411? Looked up a word in a dictionary? Wrote a check at the grocery store? Sent a postcard? Used a pay phone?
We once carried maps in the glove compartment and stopped at gas stations to ask directions. We clipped coupons with scissors, looked up movie times in the newspaper and called theaters to hear a recorded voice list the showtimes.
We took pictures with cameras, dropped the film off for developing and waited DAYS to find out we'd had our thumb over the lens.
And we knew phone numbers.
Lots of them.
I knew the numbers of family, friends, work, doctors and probably a favorite restaurant or two. Today, once I put someone in Contacts, I apparently give my brain permission to erase the number forever.
I've actually had several dreams in which there's an emergency and I need to call my late husband from a landline—but I can't remember his phone number. Why would I? He was No. 1 in my Favorites.
Apparently some little corner of my brain remains concerned that someday I'll be stranded beside a perfectly functional telephone with absolutely nobody I can call.
We didn't decide to stop memorizing phone numbers. Nobody announced that this particular life skill was being discontinued. We just stopped needing it.
That's how most of these things disappeared.
The Sears catalog. Traveler's checks. Paper airline tickets. Library card catalogs. VCRs and “Be Kind, Rewind.” Cassette tapes repaired with a pencil. Photo albums. Slide projectors. Busy signals. Long-distance rates. Calling the operator. Writing down a phone message on the pad beside the kitchen telephone.
And remember when television actually ended for the night?
Some disappearances I don't mourn at all. Ashtrays everywhere? Good riddance. Carbon copies? Fine. And I have absolutely no desire to unfold a road map across the steering wheel while trying to figure out whether I missed Highway 26.
But I do wonder what we're losing along with all that convenience.
We don't have to remember phone numbers. We don't have to remember directions. We don't even have to remember what we need at the grocery store if we put it in an app.
Maybe that's progress.
Still, I kind of miss the satisfaction of knowing exactly how to get somewhere, exactly what someone's phone number was—and exactly where to find the bent paperclip in the junk drawer.
Of course, the junk drawer hasn't quietly disappeared.
Some things are apparently forever.
So many disappearances
Alarm clocks — clock radios with glowing red numbers.
Wall calendars — still around, but no longer running everyone's life.
Address books — actual little books with crossed-out addresses and people moved from Smith, Mary to Jones, Mary.
Checkbooks — and balancing one!
Paper grocery lists tucked into a purse.
Handwritten letters and thank-you notes.
Postcards from vacations.
Encyclopedias — an entire shelf of information that was already out of date by the time you finished paying for it.
Dictionaries and thesauruses sitting beside the desk.
Yellow Pages — and letting your fingers do the walking.
Telephone booths/pay phones.
Calling 411.
Calling the operator.
Busy signals. Kids may never experience the special irritation of knowing someone was talking on the phone for THREE HOURS.
Long-distance rates — waiting until evenings or Sundays to call.
Collect calls - well maybe prison calls
Telephone extension cords long enough to roam half the house.
Writing down phone messages on a pad beside the telephone.
VCRs and “Be Kind, Rewind.”
TV antennas and somebody standing there saying, “STOP! Right there!”
Getting up to change the TV channel.
TV test patterns/sign-offs — television actually ended for the night.
Saturday morning cartoons because you couldn't watch them whenever you wanted.
The Sears catalog.
Mail-order forms where you wrote the item number, size, color and quantity and mailed it with a check.
Catalog shopping by telephone.
Travel agents for ordinary vacations.
Traveler's checks.
Paper airline tickets.
Boarding passes you guarded with your life.
Road atlases and AAA TripTiks.
Stopping at a gas station to ask for directions.
Gas-station attendants checking your oil and cleaning the windshield. (Although Oregon held onto attendants much longer than most!)
Disposable cameras.
Film canisters. And saving them because they were useful little containers!
Photo albums with actual prints.
Slide projectors and vacation slides.
One-hour photo developing.
Typewriters and correction fluid.
Carbon copies.
Fax machines.
Floppy disks.
CD towers/racks.
Cassette tapes—and fixing one with a pencil!
Newspaper classified ads.
Newspaper movie listings.
Clipping coupons with scissors.
Recipe boxes filled with handwritten index cards.
Paper menus—QR codes haven't completely won, thank goodness.
Matches from restaurants.
Ashtrays everywhere. An excellent disappearance!
Hat-check rooms.
Handkerchiefs.
Aprons for everyday cooking.
Shoe horns and those little shoe-polishing kits.
Shoe repair shops—not gone, but much harder to find.
Pencils that needed sharpening and the wall-mounted crank sharpener.
Library card catalogs.
Overdue library stamps inside the book.
Writing checks at the grocery store while twelve people waited behind you.
Bank passbooks.
Deposit slips.
Getting a paycheck that was an actual check.
Keys! Slowly disappearing—cars, hotel rooms, houses...
Doorbells that just rang instead of recording you, identifying you and notifying three phones.
Printed instruction manuals. Now apparently we're expected to scan a QR code while lying upside down underneath the dishwasher.
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