A Nice Story

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," 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 woodenbox 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.  And I knew what Sally meant. Never underestimate the impression you may make on others. And hopefully you will have an opportunity to be an 'operator' and, even more importantly, I hope you have  and 'operator' somewhere you can turn to any time you need information (HELP).  Take care.  

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