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," 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 fruits 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
wasn't 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 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 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
somehow I
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. This time when I called,
a different voice
answered "Information." I asked for Sally.
"Are you a friend?" she asked.
"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. Is your name Paul?"
"Yes," I responded.
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She had me write it down
in case you called. Let me
read it to you. The note says, '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.
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.
--Author Unknown
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