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When I was quite
young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighbourhood.
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 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.
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. 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.
Never underestimate the impression
you may make on others. Whose life have you touched today? |
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