Information, Please
(Author Unknown)

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 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.

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?" 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 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 or 20 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."

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. Did you say your name was
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.

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.
Whose life have you touched today?

Gwen

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Snowflakes are one of nature's most fragile things, but just look what they
can do when they stick together.
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