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 talked 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 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 to cry
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 foot stool 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?" the voice asked.
"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 bit 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 fruit and nuts. Then,
there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called "Information Please"
and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to
soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. I asked her, "Why is it that birds
should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up on 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 nine 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 an 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. Whose life have you touched today? Why not pass this on: I just
did. Love changes everything.
Riviera
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