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 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 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, 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 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. Is your name 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.
Author Unknown |
|
From
the internet, Thanks Paul |
Music: Precious Memories |
Never underestimate the impression you may
make on others.