It was a summer saturday afternoon when the polite call came from Bell Canada: I was two weeks behind on my phone bill; when was I going to pay it?

And that is when I lost it.

What I basically said was that I had been paying Bell bills for 50 years. Bills for phones and cellphones and computer hookups and what have you. Fifty years. Why was Bell now harassing me for a $100 bill?

Somehow, we ended that phone call with a slightly changed address for me and Bell possibly waiting patiently. But it caused me to think about Bell Tel.

To wit: years ago, we bought a cottage in the Haliburton wilderness about 130 miles northeast of Toronto. I called Bell and they said they could have an installer there at nine on a Monday morning.

So, on the appointed morning, I drove up from Toronto and waited for Bell. And waited some more.

At noon, still Bell-less, I drove to the local marina and called them.

“Oh,” said a polite voice, “the installer couldn’t make it up, so we called your number and left a message.”

“A message in Toronto?” I asked.

“Indeed,” said the polite voice, “it was the only number we had.”

“But I was waiting in Haliburton,” I said.

And that is pretty much where that incident ended. But we did get a phone in Haliburton. It was a party line, and thereby hangs another tale.

Late one quiet summer night, when I had to call my wife in Toronto, I picked up the phone and it was in use: voices and singing came over the wire. So, after 15 minutes, I picked it up again and realized I was listening to Luciano Pavarotti. A neighbour’s phone was off the hook. What to do?

First, I thought of getting in my canoe and paddling about the lake in search of an Italian tenor. But there was no guarantee the phone was even on the same lake.

So, I made my call from the marina and then called Bell to tell them what was happening on my party line. Could they give me an address?

Nope.

Could they send a loud screeching noise over the line to alert the party responsible?

Nope.

So, I went back to my cottage, yelled at Luciano a few times and went to bed. In the morning, he was gone.

But you will know I had more adventures with Bell. Later, I had a cottage on an island and a phone line under the water. And, as does happen, that line went dead. So, I took out my cellphone and called Bell. They could send someone out in a couple of days, said the polite voice. So, there I was, in a couple of days, waiting for the Bell person who never showed.

So, I called Bell.

“Your phone is on an island,” a polite voice said.

“Surrounded by water,” I replied.

So, we chatted about this for a minute or two, then I waited some more. Then, I called Bell again and was told someone was on the way, But when no one showed and when I called yet again, they seemed stumped by the island. Although they were polite.

And there is more.

Instead, I can say that a pleasant Bell person recently came by and installed a router so I would have high-speed Internet service. I was away at the time, but I assumed instructions on using high-speed might have been left. I was wrong.

The only thing I knew about this was that I should take care to remember a 26-digit code. Thus, once again I called Bell. Once again, I fought my way through their phone-answering forest. Once again, I found a polite person. His name was Ronaldo and – amazing to say – he steered me through the router process.

It took 45 minutes.

And yes, the router is now part of my overdue phone bill. And, no, I have not yet paid it.

After 50 years, Bell can cut me some slack.

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