- Sep 4, 2005
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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 talked 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
anyone's number and the correct time.
My personal experience with the genie-in-a-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 seemed no point 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 the icebox?" she asked. I said I could.
"Then chip off a little bit 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, and then said 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 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 I 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 a half-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 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 call 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, 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 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 under estimate the impression you may make on others.
Whose life have you touched today?
Author Unknown
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 talked 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
anyone's number and the correct time.
My personal experience with the genie-in-a-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 seemed no point 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 the icebox?" she asked. I said I could.
"Then chip off a little bit 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, and then said 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 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 I 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 a half-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 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 call 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, 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 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 under estimate the impression you may make on others.
Whose life have you touched today?
Author Unknown
