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.
"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
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 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 the usual 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 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 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 home town 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.
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?