“What’s a five-letter word for chronicle?” The first caller asked.
“If the party of the first part is married to the party of the second part, is it correct to say to whom or for whom?” Asked the second caller.
My most vivid memories of working as a secretary are the frequent calls I received from crossword buffs and from insurance and legal secretaries. For two-and -a half summer months between graduating from college and beginning a high school teaching career, I worked as secretary for the English Department at Southern Methodist University. The professors teaching that summer refused to take any of the anonymous calls. Reminding me that I would soon be teaching, they assured me I could answer all the questions as well as they could.
Dallas is a big city and I think almost everyone living there tries his hand (or the hand of the SMU English Department) at filling in the blanks of the crossword puzzles. If I had know all the answers to all the questions I was asked I would be well qualified to win The Press-Sentinel’s Cashword. I referred all of these callers, at least five a day, to a good crossword puzzle book.
The calls from insurance and legal secretaries came with as much frequency. I attempt to assist them wade through the jargon in which they wrote to selected proper tense or case. I’ve often wondered how many policies, wills or contracts were voided because of mistakes I might have made.
Between answering the phone and grading sets of papers, I was primarily hired to do two things that summer: to duplicate 1,000 copies of a 26-page syllabus for incoming freshmen and to type a manuscript written by the department head.
Many of the secretaries I’ve talked with this week have mentioned improvements in office machines, especially copiers. I could identify. I literally cranked off all 26,000 sheets on an old fashioned mimeograph machine. Of course, I was frequently interrupted by the crossword callers. In the interim of answering the phone, the ink in the mimeographed would run, settle in one spot or dry up. It always meant reinking the machine each time I returned. At the end of each work day, I looked more like I had worked in a garage rather than in an austere university office.
Likewise, I typed the lengthy manuscript on a manual typewriter. Since I had typed all of my themes on a manual, the machine wasn’t the problem. First of all, I never considered myself a typist. Secondly, the manuscript for a book on folklore was written in longhand and the author had taken off to parts unknown for a vacation.
I mustered all my deciphering skills - badgered every English professor on campus and called some of my English teacher friends to assist me in translating hen scratching. Finally, I left him hundreds of pages of typed papers with at least one or more blank spaces for words none of us could untangle.
Recently, I talked with a friend now working full time as a secretary in another one of the university’s departments. She described typing on word processors and duplicating on copying machines. But she prompted these memories when she was trying to type a handwritten manuscript for a professor who was away on leave. She didn’t have to explain - I remembered well.
Actually, it’s fun to recall even trying memories. But after two and a half months of secretarial duties, I remember just how glad I was when the school bell rang.
1981
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