"Information."

(author unknown to me)

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 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 to 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 caught
in the park just the day before would eat fruits and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petty, 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.  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 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 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 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 had been
working part time the 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 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.