Information Please

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 would 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 even 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 me any sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. Then I saw the telephone!

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Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver and held it to my ear.

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"Information please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. After a click or two, a small clear voice spoke into my ear.

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"Information," the voice said.

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"I hurt my finger…" I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

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"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.

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"Nobody's home but me" I blubbered.

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"Are you bleeding?"

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"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."

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"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could.

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"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 that my pet chipmunk I had caught in the park just the day before would eat fruits 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, 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.

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Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please."

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"Information," said the now familiar voice. "How do you spell fix?" I asked.

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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.

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"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.

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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 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."

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Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information." I hadn't planned on this but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"

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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 still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time."

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"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."

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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.

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"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 please." I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" she asked. "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."

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Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute; did you say your name was Paul?"

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"Yes."

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"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."

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I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.