Simpler times, when Northern California had just five area codes

If you told me your phone number area code in the 1980s, I knew generally where you lived. Because there were only five such codes in Northern California.

I grew up in the northern end of the 707, as we say now, which made it remarkable when Mrs. Brad and I moved to Fairfield and were still in the area code of our births. We were 707 for life!

However, we were aware of the other area codes (especially during my sports editor days, when I made and received calls daily from coaches): 916 was for Sacramento to the Oregon border, 415 was around San Francisco, but encompassed most of the Peninsula and East Bay Area; 408 was around San Jose; 209 was Stockton and south around I-5 and Highway 99.

That was it. That's all we'd ever need. Your area code mattered.

It was a simpler time, when we had three TV networks (before Fox arrived) and two colors of clothes (black or white).

We also had other oversimplifications to explain our childhood to people born decades after us: Life was simpler. We were happier. Our mothers were depressed and our fathers drank a lot, ignored us and often had affairs (Wait. That didn't happen to everyone?). But dang it, the world was better! There were only five area codes in Northern California!

It turns out area codes were relatively new when many thought they were permanent. Area codes began in 1947, which is a long time ago now, but wasn't that long ago in the 1960s. California originally had three area codes–213 for Southern California, 415 for Central California (which included the Bay Area) and 916 for Northern California (including my hometown of Eureka). In fact, the entire nation had 76 area codes, covering all 50 states (well, 48 states in 1947. Alaska and Hawaii were standing in the lobby, so they didn't get area codes).

The 707 was created in 1959 to commemorate the death of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper (Editor's note: That is not confirmed. In fact, it's wrong) and things stayed the same for decades and decades.

The Big Five area codes remained in place until the 1980s and the arrival of more phones, fax machines and girls whose hair was really tall in front (perhaps not related to phones). The volume of phone numbers grew quickly and new area codes came. The East Bay spun off the 510 area code in 1991. Six years later, the Peninsula became 650 and the northern part of 916 became 530. The next year, the 925 area code split from the seven-year-old 510. In the past decade or so, it's grown on steroids: a bunch of new area codes were "overlaid" to existing area codes. You may not realize this, but Northern California now has area codes 279, 341, 350, 369, 628, 669 and 837.

But . . . my hometown (Eureka) and Fairfield-Suisun are the OGs. They remain 707. An area code, a famous airplane, a lifestyle.

Who knows what will happen next? Will we continue to split area codes or will technology make it needless (mobile phones exploded but fax machines went away, partly offsetting the increase, I presume).

Sometimes I look back at the good old days when there were just a few area codes. When all we had to do was dial 11 numbers (one, plus the area code, plus the number) to make a long-distance call, which was expensive. Dialing such a number incorrectly resulted in a charge on the phone bill. Back then, your parents urged you to talk quickly to grandma because it was a long-distance call (made on a Sunday night, when rates were allegedly cheaper)!

I think back to when we had stickers on the phone with the number of the fire department, since there was no 9-1-1 system. When life was . . . 

Wait a second! That doesn't sound simpler, that sounds harder. Our phones were attached to our kitchen walls, long-distance calls cost a lot of money, you had to dial numbers, there were no answering machines and there was no 9-1-1 service.

Let me change my story. Back when I was a kid, life was so much harder. We had to dial numbers, our moms were depressed and there were just five area codes in Northern California . . .

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

The Dictionary.com Word of the Year is 6-7, which is so 6-7

If you ever forgot that teenagers want to be different, you're probably 6-7.

Don't know what that means? Neither do I. But of course, neither do tweens and teenagers who made that term so ubiquitous that it's Dictionary.com's "Word of the Year" for 2025.

Forget that "6-7" isn't a word. Forget that there's no definition. Consider it an exhibition of the power of teens.

That's so 6-7.

To the uninitiated (which is most of us), 6-7 became a common (overused) phrase this summer among school-aged kids, launched by its repetition in the song "Doot Doot (6 7)" by Skrilla (fun fact: Skrilla's real name is Fred Skrillakowski and he's a 54-year-old truck driver from Iowa. Fun truth: That's not true).

Dictionary.com wrote that 6-7, "is a viral, ambiguous slang term" that is largely nonsensical. Some say it means "so-so" or "just OK," or "maybe this, maybe that."

In other words, if kids wanted to be clear, they could say "so-so," "just OK," or "maybe this, maybe that." Or maybe not. There's a mystery to the meaning – and as always, there's a suspicion among adults that it has to do with drugs or sex.

That's so 6-7.

However, there's a possibility – maybe a likelihood, if you're a sports nerd and know players' heights – that 6-7 really grabbed people's attention when the Skrilla song was used frequently on video clips of LaMelo Ball, a player for the NBA's Charlotte Hornets who stands . . . are you ready? . . . 6 foot 7.

LaMelo Ball is 6-7! Although I'd suggest he's more than "so-so" or "just OK." LeMelo Ball has a reasonable chance to be an NBA All-Star.

But there are other possibilities.

The official Wikipedia entry says, "Some have connected it to 67th Street in Skrilla's hometown of Philadelphia or to 67th Street in Chicago. Linguist and African American English expert Taylor Jones has speculated that it may refer to '10-67,' the police radio code used to notify of a death. ... Skrilla himself has stated, 'I never put an actual meaning on it and I still would not want to.'"

After saying that, Skrilla got back into the cab of his 18-wheeler, called his wife Judy back home in Iowa, and asked if she could cook meatloaf for the first night when he returned. (This is called "continuing the bit," which is 6-7.)

Ultimately, the "Word of the Year" award holds up about as well as the Heisman Trophy in terms of predicting the future. Just go back 11 years, for instance: The Word of the Year was "exposure" and the Heisman Trophy winner was Marcus Mariota. The best you could do to suggest either had a lasting impact is to say, "Marcus Mariota seemed OK until he got exposure and we realized he's a 6-7 quarterback."

Is 6-7 worth remembering? It depends on who's in your life. If you are around a group of 13-, 15- and 17-year-olds, maybe. If not, it will probably fade into obscurity, only to be revived in 20 years when they're in their 30s and complaining about how kids are dumb.

Kids aren't dumb. They want to be different than adults. They want their own thing.

The last thing they want to be is 6-7, if my understanding is correct.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

My most miserable academic experience was a college science class

Always do your homework, even before enrolling in a class. I learned that in the most humiliating educational experience of my life.

I was midway through my college experience. I didn't live on campus (I lived in town). I had few friends who were in college with me (most of my friends were co-workers, from church or from high school). And then there was Mrs. Brad (who wasn't yet Mrs. Brad).

I was on my own to pick classes. I was a journalism major, but unfortunately, I was required to take other classes. I liked history. I tolerated psychology. I enjoyed radio.

We were required to take multiple science classes. I was terrible at science. It made no sense to me. In high school, I survived because it was a general class and I could memorize well enough to regurgitate facts for a test (while not understanding the subject).

It turned out that strategy didn't help in college. I registered for botany.

Confession: I had no idea what botany was and in the pre-internet age, the only way to find out would be to look it up in a dictionary or encyclopedia. Or ask someone who knew. I didn't do either: I needed a science class and the botany class fit my schedule. How hard could it be?

Very hard, it turns out.

I walked into the first day of class and got a sense of impending doom. I attended Humboldt State University (now Cal Poly Humboldt!), which had a large forestry program. Most of my fellow students were wearing flannel shorts, boots and had beards. And that was just the women (rimshot)!

Botany is the study of plants, it turns out. The class I was taking was a general education science class, but it was also required for those forestry majors who loved science and plants and flannel and beards.

I'd figure it out, I thought.

The botany class was three days a week at 8 a.m., which was a terrible time for someone who worked until midnight several days a week at a pizza parlor. Each Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I'd get to class, sit in a massive lecture hall with 100 other students and the teacher would turn off the lights to show slides. The next moment, the lights came back on, it was 9 a.m. and I'd slept through class. Oh no.

The worse part? There was a lab requirement of two three-hour sessions a week, which seemed impossible. I didn't know what to do, other than to use a microscope to shatter a dozen cover slides (slide covers? Who knows?) per session. I couldn't figure out how to make the microscope work, while my fellow students were talking about chlorophyll and cell walls and nuclei. While wearing flannel shirts and stroking their manly beards.

The most memorable part of the class may have been the persistent gag by Paul, of my co-workers at the pizza parlor. He would occasionally ask me what class was giving me problems. When I'd say, "botany," he'd say, "not lately."

It was dumb, but the fact that it was the highlight shows how terrible the class was.

By the midway point of the quarter, I was failing miserably. My average was in the mid-30s and the lowest D required a score in the 60s, so I went to visit the professor. I could talk my way through this. I was trying! It wasn't my fault! I went to high school with his daughter! (I hoped the last point was the tiebreaker.)

He listened to me, then said there was a great way to ensure I passed the class: Get my score up to a 60 for a D-minus. 

For me to raise my average to that point, I'd need to average an 85 or something the rest of the quarter. How was that going to happen?

I thought I could dig my way out. I'd pay attention in class. I'd solve the broken cover slide problem. I'd understand what chlorophyll was and maybe even wear flannel. Well, not that extreme, but maybe I'd figure it out.

The rest of the quarter was . . . more of the same. I went to class, fell asleep and woke up an hour later. I went to the lab hours and continued to shatter cover slides. I took tests and failed miserably.

I failed the class badly. I wasted an entire quarter by getting up early three days a week. I spent six hours a week learning to hate microscopes. I realized that people with beards and flannel shirts are smarter than me.

The most important lesson? Don't sign up for something you don't understand.

Ultimately, I compiled my science units by taking what were still casually called "bonehead" classes, those intended for students like me, rather than the whiskered, flannel-wearers.

The final class? Biology, taught by a professor who acknowledged that most of us were there for the credits, so he tried to make it interesting to us. And I had a friend who went to college and took the class with me: Mrs. Brad. We were engaged by that time and it was our last quarter of college. A biology class seemed perfect. We both passed.

Decades later, my main memories of college science, though, are of being tired and breaking cover slides.

Botany? Not lately.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.