When I was quite
young, my family had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I
remember well the polished oak case fastened to the wall on the lower stair
landing. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I even remembered the
number - 105. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with
fascination when my mother talked into it. Once she lifted me up to speak to my
father, who was away on business. Magic! Then I discovered that somewhere inside
that wonderful device lived an amazing person - her name was "Information
Please" and there was nothing that she did not know. My mother could ask
her for anybody's number and when our clock ran down, Information Please
immediately supplied the correct time.
My
first personal experience with this genie-in-the-receiver came one day while my
mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the toolbench in the
basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there
didn't seem to be of much use crying because there was no one home to offer
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
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 fingerrr-" 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 at home
but me," I blubbered. "Are you bleeding?". "No", I
replied. "I hit it 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 on your finger. That will stop the hurt. Be careful
when you use the ice pick," she admonished. "And don't cry. You'll be
alright".
After
that, I called Information Please for everything. I asked for help with my
Geography and she told me where Philadelphia was, and the Orinco--the romantic
river I was going to explore when I grew up. She helped me with my Arithmetic,
and she told me that a pet chipmunk--I had caught him in the park just that 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-up say to soothe a child. But I was
unconsoled. Why was it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to
whole families, only to end as a heap of feathers feet up, on the bottom of a
cage? She must have sensed my deep concern, for she quietly said, "Paul,
always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow, I felt
better.
Another
day I was at the telephone. "Information," said the now familiar
voice. "How do you spell fix?". F-I-X." At that instant my
sister, who took unholy joy in scaring me, jumped off the stairs at me with a
banshee shriek-"Yaaaaaaaaaa!" I fell off the stool, pulling the
receiver out of the box by its roots. We were both terrified--Information
Please was no longer there, and I was not at all sure that I hadn't hurt her
when I pulled the receiver out. Minutes later, there was a man on the porch.
"I'm a telephone repairman. I was working down the street and the operator
said there might be some trouble at this number." He reached for the
receiver in my hand. "What happened?" I told him. "Well, we can
fix that in a minute or two." He opened the telephone box exposing a maze
of wires and coils, and fiddled for a while with the end of the receiver cord,
tightened things with a small screwdriver. He jiggled the hook up and down a
few times, then spoke into the phone. "Hi, this is Pete. Everything's
under control at 105. The kid's sister scared him and he pulled the cord out of
the box." He hung up, smiled, gave me a pat on the head and walked out the
door.
All
this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. Then, when I was nine
years old, we moved across he country to Boston-and I missed my mentor acutely.
Information Please belonged in that old wooden box back at home, and I somehow
never thought if trying the tall, skinny new phone that sat on the small table
in the hall. Yet, as I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood
conversation never really left me; often in moments of doubt and perplexity I
would recall the serene sense of security I had when I know that I could call
Information Please and get the right answer. I appreciated now how very
patient, understanding and kind she was to have wasted her time on a little
boy.
A
few years later, on my way back to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had
about half an hour between plan connections, and I spent 15 minutes or so on
the phone with my sister who lived there now, happily mellowed by marriage and
motherhood. Then, really without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my
hometown operator and said, "Information Please." Miraculously, I
heard again the small, clear voice that I know so well:"Information."
I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you tell me,
please, how to spell the word 'fix'?" There was a long pause. Then came
the softly spoken answer. "I guess," said Information Please,
"that your finger must have healed by now." I laughed. "So it's
really still you. I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during
all that time...." "I wonder," she replied, "if you know
how much you meant to me? I never had any children, and I used to look forward
to your calls. Silly, wasn't it?" It didn't seem silly, but I didn't say
so. Instead I told her how often I had thought of her over the years, and I
asked if I could call her again when I come back to visit my sister when the
semester was over. "Please do. Just ask for Sally." "Goodbye
Sally." It sounded strange for Information Please to have a name. "If
I run into any chipmunks, I'll tell them to eat fruits and nuts." "Do
that," she said. "And I expect one of these days you'll be off for the
Orinoco. Well, good-bye."
Just
three months later, I was back again at the Seattle airport. A different voice
answered, "Information," and I asked for Sally. "Are you a
friend?" "Yes," I said. "An old friend." "Then
I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally had only been working part-time in the
last few years because she was ill. She died five weeks ago." But before I
could hung up, she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was
Villard?" "Yes." "Well, Sally left a message for you. She
wrote it down." "What was it?" I asked, almost knowing in
advance what it would be. "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.
Video Archive - Les Feldick Bible Study
(A 10 Minute Video)
Video Archive - Les Feldick Bible Study
How
God Saves Men
Believing
Christ DIED, that’s HISTORY.
Believing
Christ DIED for YOU SINS and Rose again that’s SALVATION.
Read
Romans 1:16, Romans 10:9-10 and 1. Corinthians 15:1-4
(A 10 Minute Video)
E-mail
this BIBLE STUDY to all your friends
No comments:
Post a Comment