REACHING OUT
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 foot stool 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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.
Author Unknown - Shared by Dr. Gloria Jo Floyd
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