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.
