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. 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?"

"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
fruits 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 un-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 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 9 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. Did you say
your name was Paul?"

"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.

Anonymous