(as read on air by Anita Eisenberg,
C.S.W.)
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 used to talk 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?"
"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 un-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.
"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 her I still say there are other worlds to sing in. She'll know
what I mean."
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what
Sally meant.
- Anonymous