Story somebody sent me several years ago:
When I was quite young, 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 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 Petty, 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, "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 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 Paul?" "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. Whose life have
you touched today? Why not pass this on? I just did.... Lifting you on
eagle's wings. May you find the joy and peace you long for. Life is a
journey ... not a guided tour.
