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 and
shiny receiver 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?'' 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 that my pet chipmunk, which 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 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 our
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. Are you
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 know what Sally meant.

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others. Whose life have
you touched today?