nice story...

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 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."

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,
and she told me my pet chipmunk I had caught in the park just the day before
would eat fruits and nuts.

And there was the time that 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. Why is it that birds
should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a
heap of feathers, feet up 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. Then 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 hall table.

Yet 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 plane, and 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 again the small, clear voice I knew so well,
"Information." I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you tell
me please how to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess that 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, just ask for Sally."

Just three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered
Information and I asked for Sally.

"Are you a friend?"

"Yes, a very old friend."

"Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally has been working part-time the last
few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago." But 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. Here it is. I'll read
it: '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 did know what Sally meant.