INFORMATION PLEASE
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 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 parlor 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 unconsoled. I asked her,
"Why is
it that birds should sing to beautifully and bring joy to all families,
only
to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"
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
somehow I 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 touched 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, and,
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 I 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. Is your name 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 says, "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.
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