THE OLD TELEPHONE 

When I was quite young, my father had 
one of the first telephones in our neighbourhood. 
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 neighbour. 
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 parlour 
and dragged it to the landing.

Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlour 
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 Petey, 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, ' Wayne, 
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 Wayne?' 
'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.

Life is a journey ... NOT a guided tour. 
So don't miss the ride
and have a great time going around... 
you don't get a second shot at it.