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INFORMATION PLEASE
When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well he 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.
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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 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.
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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. 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."
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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. Is this 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.
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