When I was 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 I listened fascinatedly 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 for 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 above my head.
With a click or two, 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, which 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 and said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child, but I was inconsolable. I asked her, "Why should birds 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, 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 never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone 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 was 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 lives 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 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. "Do you know 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?
