Post by Rhonda on Jan 24, 2006 21:45:47 GMT -5
Things from our Childhood
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
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