IT'S THE SMALL THINGS IN LIFE THAT COUNT MOST...
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 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. But 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.
Some Some 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.
