Post by vimala on Jun 12, 2008 6:14:55 GMT 5.5
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 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 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 inconsolable. 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 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 asked. Yes, a very old friend, I answered. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, she said. Sally has 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, I replied. 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. Whose life have you touched today?
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 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 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 inconsolable. 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 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 asked. Yes, a very old friend, I answered. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, she said. Sally has 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, I replied. 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. Whose life have you touched today?
Unknown