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 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?"

         "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
          plane, 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 dialed 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.

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