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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. 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 foot
stool in the parlor and dragged it to the
landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver 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
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 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 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," 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.
"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.
Never underestimate the impression you may
make on others Who's life have you touched today?
Why not pass this on, I just did. |
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