Reconnecting Lines

I didn’t make it to Brick Fair Expo this weekend.

Not because I didn’t want to—but because something else felt more important.

There’s been a quiet effort underway to repair relationships between organizations. Alongside that, a potential grant opportunity surfaced—one that would require multiple community organizations working together.

That kind of opportunity doesn’t come along often. And when it does, it’s worth showing up for.

I’ve had a long-standing relationship with local leaders in the community, and over time, I’ve heard different perspectives about what caused disconnects in the first place. Sometimes it’s many things. Sometimes it’s one moment—or one person.

Situations change over time, and when the original catalyst is no longer there, repairs can begin.

In other cases, it’s a delicate balance—maintaining boundaries while continuing to show up in good faith, even when others are uncertain.

I bring a different perspective. I don’t always fit the expected approach—but I try anyway. Because if I don’t, I’m choosing to leave things broken.

That matters.

Because sometimes the barrier isn’t the organizations—it’s the moment in time, and the people who were part of it.

Lately, I’ve been hearing something different. One of the organizations reached out to the other after I recommended a path forward, and it landed well. There was a noticeable shift—more openness, more willingness, and more optimism.

There was a planned attendance at a local event, but I didn’t see them there. The tone had already changed the night before, and it carried on into breakfast.

And that’s a start. To bring peace and harmony to the community. To repair relationships, and to move forward, to lift the community up.

A Different Kind of Exploration

After sitting with all of that, I shifted gears for a bit. After breakfast, I stopped by Happy Creek Antiques.

I had something specific in mind: an old typewriter—preferably an Underwood.

My dad once told me he picked one up for $5 at a post office that his mother worked at, where the postmaster also sold antiques. It may have been a store next to it, as the setup seems a bit odd, but that’s the general concept of how our family acquired it. I used it in middle school—typing out job applications in the 80s so everything looked clean and professional.

Looking back, there may have been something psychological about it. Typed applications stood out. They looked official—like they came from “the system,” not just a kid filling out a form.

I got the job both years.

There’s something about tools like that—they don’t just do a task, they shape perception.

I didn’t find any older ones this time, other than a tiny one that fit inside a tiny suitcase.

But I wasn’t leaving empty-handed.

Signals from the Past

What I did find was something else entirely.

The same spot where I’d previously picked up rotary and crank phones now held a candlestick phone with a plastic ringer box.

At first, I thought: maybe. But nothing had a price—and that always makes decision-making harder than it should be.

So I asked.

$150. A bit high, but within reason.

I went back, picked it up, and carried it to the front.

Then came the twist.

The phone actually belonged to the father sitting nearby. He set the price at $300—and mentioned the ringer box was hard to find.

That changed everything.

At $150, I was interested. At $300, I was out.

So I put it back.

But walking away didn’t mean stopping. In a way, that moment pushed me to look further, think differently, and refine what I actually wanted—while taking a few practical shortcuts to get my current phone working before building out the electrical modules to detect signals and ring the bells.

I found a few candlestick phones online and got a better sense of the price. I found one in particular with a wooden ringer box for $210 plus shipping. That felt more aligned with what I already had. Then I came across something even more interesting: a small courtesy coin box.

Not a full payphone—just enough to create the experience of one.

That’s when it clicked.

This isn’t just about collecting different phones anymore. It’s about creating an experience—and understanding how it all works.

I purchased the coin box separately for $20—or at least, I thought I did.

A Misunderstanding

A day later, while reviewing my orders, I realized the listing was actually for the key—something that’s often missing—not the coin box itself. The main image showed the entire coin box, making it easy to overlook, and the title suggested the key was included as a selling point.

It was disappointing to realize what I had actually purchased, but it’s part of the learning curve when dealing with antiques online.

That sent me down a rabbit hole.

The original phone I saw on eBay with the coin box had a starting bid of $199—no rotary and a heavily worn sticker. After digging a bit deeper, I found that coin boxes alone, especially with clean original labels, had sold for around $375. Another candlestick phone with a coin box and rotary was listed at $426, though the label was curling on the edges. Yet another was listed at $600, with visible wear on the sticker edges where it had torn away.

These coin boxes are surprisingly difficult to find in good condition – even with the phone included. It could very well be that these were the first “official” pay phones based on the honor system. In a museum/gallery exhibit, it would be perfectly appropriate to set it as a donation box, even though 5 cents today is nowhere near what it was 100 years ago – mind you, the penny was just phased out last year due to the cost of making it was too high.

I even came across a replacement label for $11, but the finish didn’t look quite right—more of a glossy gold than the original glittered style. The description says it was made in the 1970’s as exact duplicates, but looking at the hole placement, it’s fairly obvious that the layout doesn’t match.

In the end, with zero bids and a week remaining, I decided to move forward with one of the listings—something to have on hand as I continue building out the exhibit. For most people, the experience will be enough. If I find a similar box or acquire a courtesy pay box that is too far worn, I can use the sticker, and that will be a start. Until then, I can just display the sticker behind a shadowbox.

Building the System Behind the Story

The exhibit is starting to take shape—not just physically, but electrically and digitally.

With two compatible antique phones, I can now wire them directly together and begin testing once the other arrives:

• Supplying DC voltage for talk circuits
• Detecting AC voltage from the magneto crank
• Generating ring signals
• Understanding what works—and what doesn’t

To support that, I’ve started gathering components:

• Optocouplers (to safely detect AC signals)
• Zener diodes, higher-wattage resistors to dissipate more heat, IC sockets
• RJ11 breakout adapters
• Dupont connectors and crimping tools

I also picked up a second Raspberry Pi so I can maintain a development system at home and deploy updates via microSD—keeping the exhibit itself offline and controlled.

I’ll be testing everything at home on one system, then using a bit of “sneakernet” to transfer audio over to the gallery. The exhibit isn’t connected to the internet or any live phone lines, so physical transfer keeps things simple and contained.

It’s a familiar approach. Years ago, I worked with systems where data had to move between isolated networks as ships came into port—similar in concept, though far more complex in practice. This version is much simpler, but the principle is the same: move carefully, verify, and keep both sides consistent.

And if anything goes missing—whether it’s the microSD card or even the hardware—I have a backup system at home that I can bring in at a moment’s notice.

And then there’s the infrastructure.

The lodge donated two rotary phones to the project—unexpected, and incredibly appreciated.

With the collection growing, I picked up two used 8-port Grandstream ATA units. For about the price of a new 2-port device, I now have significantly more flexibility—and support for the higher-voltage ringing required by older phones. I’m good for rotary phones for now. Anything additional will probably be something unique like a normal payphone (with booth preferred), a working switchboard, Pop culture phones (Mickey Mouse, Goofy, Garfield phone, Hot Lips), [Animated phones are better], Grillo Flip Phone, Strowger Dial phone for an early automatic dialer, call box, Railroad/Linesman phone, Picturephone (Video), etc.

The plan is to simplify the network:

• Connect the ATA directly to the Raspberry Pi
• Let the Pi handle DHCP
• Eliminate the need for a switch
• Keep everything compact and self-contained

It’s a little more work up front—but once it’s set, it disappears into the background.

The Digital Layer

Alongside the hardware, the website is coming together.

People can:

• Create accounts
• Upload audio
• Have it converted to telephone-quality sound
• Listen to the original and converted audio
• Automatically generate AI transcriptions for moderation and search
• Reserve telephone numbers

And before they contribute, they agree to a set of terms that aim to be both transparent and practical.

There’s the formal agreement—and then there’s the plain-language version.

Because clarity matters.

People should know:

• Their audio may be heard publicly
• It will be transformed to sound like a phone
• It may be edited, segmented, or filtered
• AI may be used to review and classify content
• The system will evolve over time

That balance—between openness and responsibility—is part of the design.

Accessibility

One big step forward was adding two TTY machines—a Teletype Ultratec Miniprint 425 and an Ultratec Superprint 4425—and setting up the website to generate TTY tones from audio transcriptions. This gives the public a chance to experience these devices firsthand. Many of us have seen TTY numbers for years without ever encountering one in person, much less using one.

It also expands accessibility. Individuals with hearing disabilities can interact with the exhibit in a meaningful way, while anyone can walk away with a printed version of the audio—turning sound into something tangible.

TTY devices are limited to uppercase letters, numbers, spaces, and a small set of punctuation (- ? : ( ) . , / ‘ = +). That means no email addresses, prices with symbols, or emojis—but within those limits, there’s still room for creativity. With a little imagination, even simple characters can form blocky text art and expressive messages.

    A
   A A
  AAAAA
  A   A
  A   A
  AAAAA

  W W
 (O O)
  \_/

  AA   AA
 A  A A  A
 A   A   A
  A     A
   A   A
    A A
     A

PPPPP  H   H  OOO   N   N  EEEEE
P   P  H   H O   O  NN  N  E
PPPPP  HHHHH O   O  N N N  EEEE
P      H   H O   O  N  NN  E
P      H   H  OOO   N   N  EEEEE

Where This Is Going

What started as a curiosity—phones dialing in to play audio—is becoming something much larger.

A shared space where:

• Stories are dialed, not clicked
• Voices are heard through limitations, not despite them
• Technology becomes tactile again
• Parents can teach children about rotary and touch-tone phones
• Grandparents can teach their children about phones prior to rotary phones
• Everyone can learn about accessibility

And at the same time, something else is happening in parallel.

Connections are being repaired.

Organizations are finding their way back to each other.

Opportunities are forming that require collaboration—not just participation.

It’s all part of the same pattern.

Wires reconnecting.

Signals traveling again.

And slowly, something meaningful coming back online.

The phone exhibit does more than showcase technology. It’s building connections—historically, culturally, and creatively—bringing people a little closer together.