When I was quite
young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I
remember 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 not consoled. 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 in 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
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, 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." I answered.
"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. |