jjharts
02-01-2002, 12:49 PM
Received this in an email - thought it was pretty neat:
When I was very young, my father had one of
the first telephones in our neighborhood. I rememember
well, the old case fastened to the wall and shiny
receiver on the side of the box.
I was too little to reach the telephone, but
used to listen with fascination
when my mother would talk to it. Then I
discovered that somewhere inside
the wonderful device lived an amazing person
and 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-a-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 me 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 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 a
hammer and it hurts. "Can you
open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could.
"Then chip off a 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 that my pet
chipmunk, which 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, then said the usual thing
grown ups say to soothe a child. But, I was
inconsolable. 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, "You must
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
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 somehow I never thought of trying the tall,
new shiny 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 about
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 be 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
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 in the last
few years because she was sick.
She died five weeks ago."
Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute.
Are you Paul?" "Yes,"
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote
it down in case you called
when she was too sick to work.
Let me read it to you." The note said, "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 make on
others.
When I was very young, my father had one of
the first telephones in our neighborhood. I rememember
well, the old case fastened to the wall and shiny
receiver on the side of the box.
I was too little to reach the telephone, but
used to listen with fascination
when my mother would talk to it. Then I
discovered that somewhere inside
the wonderful device lived an amazing person
and 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-a-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 me 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 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 a
hammer and it hurts. "Can you
open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could.
"Then chip off a 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 that my pet
chipmunk, which 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, then said the usual thing
grown ups say to soothe a child. But, I was
inconsolable. 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, "You must
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
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 somehow I never thought of trying the tall,
new shiny 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 about
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 be 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
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 in the last
few years because she was sick.
She died five weeks ago."
Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute.
Are you Paul?" "Yes,"
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote
it down in case you called
when she was too sick to work.
Let me read it to you." The note said, "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 make on
others.