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."
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, and she told me my pet chipmunk I had caught
in the park just the day before would eat fruits and nuts. And there
was the time that 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. Why is
it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all
families, only to end up as a heap of feathers, feet up 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.
Then 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 hall table. Yet 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, and 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 again the small,
clear voice I knew so well, "Information." I hadn't planned this but
I heard myself saying, "Could you tell me please how-to spell fix?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess
that 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, just ask for Sally."
Just three months later I was back in Seattle. . . A different voice
answered Information, and I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?"
"Yes, a very old friend." "Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally
has been working part-time the last few years because she was sick.
She died five weeks ago." But 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. Here it is I'll read it. '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 did know what Sally meant.
[ Author Unknown -- from Bill Dorman ]
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