A Story You will not easily forget.....and if you miss you will repent.!! When I was a young boy, my Father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember 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 anyone;s number and the correct time. My personal experience with the genie-in-a-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 seemed no point 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? the voice asked. No,I replied. I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts. Can you open the icebox? she asked. I said I could. Then chip off a little bit 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 maths. 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, Information Please, and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not 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, Wayne, 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 in the now familiar voice. How do I 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 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 a half-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 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 call 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 Wayne ? Yes. I answered. 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 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.
Posted on: Fri, 14 Nov 2014 04:32:40 +0000
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