"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 fnger, 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. 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 in 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. My name is Paul," 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.
 
     
Author Unknown
 
 
Make a great day...
 
 
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