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.

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 he 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 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.

-Anonymous

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others!