15 Mar 2026 Taking a call back to simpler times

Posted at 3:10 PMh in Features by

By Vivian Lawson Hogue

The snapshots and portraits in a blue box under a bed record more than just the images of people. Some are of our house that was purchased in 1946 and in which I still live. My parents, especially my mother, must have been very proud of this house. She once told of moving 21 times in 21 years and losing all the family belongings in a rental house fire in 1934. All that was saved were newly canned jars of peaches on the back porch. I could imagine how it must have been to finally own a sturdy home with furniture and ample room for seven people.

She also mentioned an incident when she, dad and the first child were living in Fayetteville while dad was in college in about 1927. The Great Depression was beginning. They lived in an apartment, and mother handwashed clothes and dried them outside on a wire clothesline. One day, she pinned all her laundry on the line, and the next morning it was all gone. She said since times were bad, someone else possibly needed them more. I’m afraid I might have grabbed my iron skillet and gone after “someone,” especially if they took the diapers and underwear.

A few photos are of the new house interior soon after we moved in. Furniture seemed meager in the new, larger rooms. Our “entertainment center” consisted of a small bookcase on which sat a wooden, dome-topped Philco table radio that stood about 18 inches tall. Its exterior “technology” consisted of an on/off knob, a volume knob and a station selector. A little orange light glowed behind the station indicator.

At night, I would often turn off the ceiling light and stare at the little light while I listened to “Inner Sanctum.” My parents listened to the “Voice of America” radio broadcasts of the reports following World War II, and later, the news containing war reports from Korea. I’m sure the tinny newscasters’ voices that faded in and out concerned my parents regarding their three older boys.

The 12-foot ceilings affected everything. We could run down our splintery 9-by-30 hall with voices echoing. The large Dearborn heater in the living room provided warmth as I laid on the floor on mother’s hand-braided rugs. There I read the comics on Sunday mornings while waiting for her pancakes.

We never took electricity for granted and we used it frugally. Our instructions were to turn off the light when leaving a room. Each room had one drop light. Just a bulb on a cord with a chain pull. Only the living room had a light fixture, and it was truly an ugly one.

We always had a telephone with 549-R being our first number. Our long-time phone was a black candlestick style with no rotary dial. There was no need for a dial, since all you did was lift the receiver to your ear and were immediately connected with an operator who said, “Number, please?” If someone on your party line was already in deep conversation, you just had to listen for a minute before hanging up.

Most Old Conway homes and businesses acquired utilities by 1929. Our home, built in 1910, was outfitted in anticipation of an indoor bathroom! A never-used well still exists beneath what was previously a screened back porch. Everyone used the claw-foot bathtub, the most in need being those stinky boys. 

Mother rolled out the wringer washer from its corner once a week to keep up the family’s reputation.

I was always last getting the use of our one bathroom. I sat on the floor outside the door for what seemed hours waiting for the last hair in a 1950s pompadour to become properly placed. When brother Larry once sat on the lavatory to get a closer look at that last hair, the bowl broke off the wall and primping procedures changed. Oh, and whatever the size of the water heater, it was insufficient. I don’t think I was aware that we had hot water until three of the boys left for college.

I have now come to realize that memories are simply snapshots preserved in our minds and hearts. Many of mine are in that blue box under a bed, but many more are in my mind’s designated files where they are, for now, safe. Some are blurry and some have people I don’t recognize. Some show the source of my brothers’ cleft chins. Even cologne or cooking aromas can come forth! All types of cameras are represented except Polaroids. All images can make you cry or smile at the same time, especially those of your children.

Obviously, I don’t get into the blue box very often. That’s a rowdy bunch in there!

Vivian Lawson Hogue
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