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 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 hacked 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 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 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. Is this 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?