Information, Please
Information, Please
When I was quite young, I discovered that somewhere inside the telephone lived an amazing person - "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know.
My first personal experience with this person came one day while my mother was out. Amusing myself at the tool bench, I hit my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there was no one home to give me any sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my pounding finger, finally arriving at the telephone!
Quickly, I unhooked the receiver and held it to my ear. "Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece. After a click or two, a small clear voice spoke into my ear.
"Information."
"I hurt my finger. . ." I wept loudly. The tears came readily enough, now that I had an audience.
"Isn't your mother home?"
"Nobody's home but me," I cried.
"Are you bleeding?"
"No, 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."
After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography or with my math.
When my pet canary died, I told "Information Please" the sad story. She tried to soothe me. But, I was not 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, "How do you spell 'grateful'? "
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was 9, we moved to Boston.
As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. 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 to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes. Without thinking, 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 on this but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell 'grateful'?"
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 told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again. "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 tell you this," she said, "Sally 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 said, 'Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean.'"
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