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"Information, May
I Help You? "
June 10, 2005
Today's newsletter is
taken from a June 1966 Reader's Digest article written by Paul Villiard.
The article is a little bit
longer than most, but I trust you will enjoy it as much as I did when I received it this
morning while I worked on the "other" newsletter I was going to send you...this is so much
sweeter.
Enjoy...
When I was quite
young, my father had one of the
first telephones in
our neighborhood. 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 neighbor.
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 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, May I Help You?"
"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 (nowadays...that would spell trouble!). "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,
"Paul, always remember
that there are other worlds to sing in."
Somehow
I felt better.
Another day I was on
the telephone and called "Information
Please." I asked,
"How do I spell fix?" 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 asked. "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 about five
weeks ago." Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute, did you say your
name was Paul?"
"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.
--Paul Villiard
1966
Enjoy your week!
Until next time,
Beth
Aldrich
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