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>INFORMATION PLEASE
>
>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 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.
>