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 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 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 said. "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.
| Authors
Details: Unknown Author |
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