Apigian-Kessel: Did Bell Know What He Was Doing?
I yawned as I placed the house phone back on its stand, and wondered just how long I had been talking. I flipped open the cell phone to check the time. My eyes did not believe the proof of my outrageous behavior. Had I broken my mother-in-law’s record of time logged in a single phone call?
It was 3:30 a.m. when I finally crawled into bed on one of the coldest January nights of the year. The weather really did not have anything to do with the length of my conversation. It was post-holiday, and we had a lot of catching up to do.
I made no bones about my late arrival into the marital bed, as I loudly whispered, “Bob, are you awake?”
Why should he be? When I get late-night phone calls (accepted from only a select few), he bids me farewell as he heads for bed, knowing it will be a conversation of some duration.
I remember as a child spending a few days visiting relatives in Brantford, Ontario, and touring the home of Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone. The importance of his device had no impact on me at that age, but our thanks go to that Canadian genius (probably not as well known as being from Brantford as ex-NHL hockey star Wayne Gretsky is).
“I can’t believe I was on the phone for four hours. Are you sure it was 11:30 p.m. when she called?” I added additional verbiage: “And the phone battery held up all that time, too.” I encased myself around the comforter trying to create a nest where I would be cozy and warm, anticipating a late arising time.
Perhaps I have a selfish streak, but I prefer to think I like to share most aspects of my life with my husband, even though, yes, it meant waking him up at an unholy hour to tell of my late-night indulgence. He patiently said, “Well, I still don’t think you broke my mother’s record for lengthy conversations.”
My husband’s mother, Marguerite Anne Kessel (nee Lawler), was pure Irish, the granddaughter of immigrants straight from the old sod, and very Catholic. She came from a family of eight children born and bred in Saginaw, Mich., and all attended parochial schools. Sunday mass and holy days were vigilantly observed.
She married Bertram Kessel, a pure German Lutheran, who also came from a large family, of seven children. He converted for his wife’s sake and together they faithfully attended mass, and raised their one and only child, my husband, who claims he was not spoiled. I think meeting me fixed that. My mother lured him with cold beer and her delicious cheese boeregs.
Soon after marriage Bert and Marguerite moved to Pontiac. He was the chief metallurgist for Oakland Car (later the Pontiac Motor Division) and he was transferred to head up engine manufacturing.
It was said he was so expert at his job that all he had to do was observe the color of the smoke belching from the cupolas as he drove into work to know instantly what mix of metals were needed for the correction.
Perhaps it is the fact the Irish are from an island or that they had not seen my traveling companion for a long time, but on my visit to Ireland years ago, I discovered how long-winded the Irish can be, lilting accent and all.
I am first generation Armenian-American, and am quite used to commotion and talk at family gatherings. We are not a silent people. We have a lot to say.
The visit to the Emerald Isle was to be to my benefit. It honed my listening skills that, to this day, I put to good use. For the first time in my life, I found I had a difficult time making my way into a conversation. Could that be because they were stimulated by the free flow of Guinness and other spirits?
Marguerite Anne Kessel was no exception. Barely 5’ tall and tiny ,she was known to spend most of her free time after household chores and spent hours on the telephone, a chronic condition she maintained until her death at an advanced age.
Perhaps the talking was a result of her once being a telephone operator, or because in a large family you had to speak up to be heard, especially at the dinner table. “Please pass the corned beef and cabbage!”
She is also the one I blame for giving me the wrong ingredients for what her son says was the best lemon meringue pie he ever tasted. I have overlooked that one in the belief that a husband should have something left of his mom’s cooking that a wife cannot duplicate.
Bert Kessel passed away much too young, at age 58, a week before his son and I wed. Marguerite lost her husband, and to an extent her son, in a short span of time, but she had many friends—and the telephone became even more of a lifeline for her. The phone kept the spark of life lit within her to carry on as a widow. It was a coping mechanism.
I once continually tried to reach her by phone for over four hours. I abandoned that exercise in futility, called Western Union, and had a message delivered to her by telegram. In it I stated I was trying to contact her for baby-sitting duties. She was still on the phone when Western Union knocked on her door to deliver my telegram.
She got a good laugh out of that, and to this day her son accuses me of trying to outdo his mother. She remains the champion. It is episodes like this one that remain sweet to retell even after they leave life on earth.
That is why I believe that people should be nice, be thoughtful and polite to one another. Age catches up on all of us. Friends pass away. Kindness and loyalty never go out of style. Being alone can be very lonely, and the telephone is a remedy for that. Do not take friends for granted. Make time for them and thank Bell for the invention to stay connected.
I want Marguerite the Irish lass to know her talent is not being wasted. Her daughter-in-law carries on the Kessel telephone tradition to the best of her ability. I bet she still feels pretty smug about the fact that I cannot bake a great lemon meringue pie like she did, but then she did not know how to make a flaky cheese boereg either. The in-law wars rage on.
