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.

“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 chipoff 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.  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.

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.