Information
Please Sent in
by
Tom of Pasadena, CA
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When I
was a young boy, 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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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,
"Wayne, 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 talking machine 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.
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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."
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Miraculously,
I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.
"Information."
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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."
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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
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.
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A different
voice answered, "Information."
I asked
for Sally.
"Are
you a friend?"
she said.
"Yes,
a very old friend,"
I answered.
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"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 Wayne?"
"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.

Never underestimate
the impression you may make on others. Life is short. Life is a
journey. Whose life have you touched today?
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