When I was quite young, my father had one of
the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well the polished old
case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box.
I was too little to reach the telephone, but l used to listen with
fascination when my mother used to talk to it.
Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an
amazing person - her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she
did not know. "Information Please" could supply anybody's number and the
correct time.
My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-bottle came one day
while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench
in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible,
but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one
home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing
finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for
the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I
unhooked the receiver in the hall and held it to my ear.
"Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A
click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
"Information."
"I hurt my finger. . ." I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily
enough now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.
"Nobody's home but me." I blubbered.
"Are you bleeding?"
"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a
little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.
After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for
help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped
me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park
just the day before would eat fruits and nuts.
Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called "Information
Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things
grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was un-consoled. I asked her, "Why
is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families,
only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always
remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please."
"Information," said the now familiar voice. "How do you spell fix?" I
asked.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific northwest. When I was 9
years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very
much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I
somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the
table in the hall.
As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations
never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would
recall the serene sense of security I had then I appreciated now how
patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little
boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in
Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes
or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.
Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and
said, "Information please." Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I
knew so well, "Information."
I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me
how to spell fix?" There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken
answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now." I laughed. "So it's
really still you,' I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you
meant to me during that time."
"I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me." I
never had any children, and I used to look forward to
your calls."
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and asked if I
could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
"Please do!" she said. "Just ask for Sally."
Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered
"Information." I asked for Sally.
"Are you a friend?" she asked.
"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working
part-time the last few years because she was sick.
She died five weeks ago."
Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was
Paul?"
"Yes,"
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called.
Let me read it to you."
The note said, "Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in.
He'll know what I mean."
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.
Never underestimate the impression you may
make on others.
Author: Paul (or whoever?)
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