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Information Please
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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 toolbench 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 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 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 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.
by Paul Villiard
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Note from GranGran:
I also remember when you dialed "0" for "Operator" and got a real "Information
Please" person...and we had phone numbers
like 276J or BR84...and party lines...and only one phone in the house...and if
you made
a call, you got an answer, no answer or a busy signal -- those were the only
three options available.
Now don't get me wrong -- I love all the new technology...certainly wouldn't
want to do without phones in multiple rooms, my cordless phone or cellular
phone...and definitely couldn't make it without the line to my computer --
but's there's just a little part of me that can't help but long for the
simplicity of yesteryear.
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