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 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."

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, and she told me my pet chipmunk I had caught in the park just

the day before would eat fruits and nuts.

And there was the time that 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. Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring

joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers, feet up 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. Then 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 hall table.

Yet 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 plane, and 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 again the small, clear voice I knew so well,

"Information." I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying,

"Could you tell me please how-to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess that

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, just ask for Sally."

Just three months later I was back in Seattle. . .A different voice

answered Information and I asked for Sally.

"Are you a friend?"

"Yes, a very old friend."

"Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally has been working part-time

the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago." But

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. Here it is I'll

read it. '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 did know what Sally meant.

(Author Unknown)