IJMC - Ain't Technology Grand?

Ok, so true, there are other stories, different stories that would 
supplement today's technology. And there was probably someone who once 
said that the telephone would mean the end of people talking to each 
other in person. So here I am, typing to people I don't know, whose faces 
and voices I will never see nor hear. Ain't technology grand?       -dave






"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 that wonderful device lived an
amazing person.  Her name was "Information Please".  She could supply
anybody's number and the correct time.  There was nothing she did not
know.

  My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-box 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 point in crying because there
was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my
throbbing finger, finally coming to the stairway.  The telephone! 
Quickly I ran for the footstool in the parlor, dragging it to the
landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver 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, now that I had an audience.

  "Isn't your mother home?"

  "Nobody's home but me," I blubbered.

  "Are you bleeding?"

  "No, 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 the day before would eat fruits and nuts.

  Then 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 do birds sing so beautifully, bring joy to all the family, only to
end up a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"

  She sensed my deep concern and said quietly, "Paul, always remember
that there are other worlds to sing in." Then I felt better.

  Another day I was on the telephone: "Information, please."

  "Information," said the now familiar voice.

  "How do you spell fix?"

  All this took place in our small town in the Pacific Northwest. Then,
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 tall,
shiny new phone that sat on the hall table.

  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 they gave me. I appreciated now how
patient, understanding, and kind my friend had been to spend time on one
small 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, so I spent
fifteen minutes on the phone with my sister, who lived there. Then,
without thinking, 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 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 so 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--just ask for Sally."

  Three months later, I was back in Seattle.  A different voice answered
when I asked for Information, so I asked for Sally.

  "Are you a friend?"

  "Yes, a friend for years."

  "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 to you: '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 just what Sally meant.

  --Author unknown