When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighbourhood. 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 neighbour. 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 parlour and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up I unhooked the
receiver in the parlour 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 planes, 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 dialled 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.
