Information please?

hello all readers, and warm greetings once again.
here’s a very emotionel and touchy story i’ve found while browsing on the internet.

the message of the story is,
” Never underestimate the impression you may make on others. ”

it is the story of early 1920’s when telephones was very new and only very rich peoples owned them.
also, those daies, there was 1 phone operator who connects lines, and there was no self dialing concepts.
here’s the story, read and feel its internal message.

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 the wonderful device lived an amazing person – 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-the-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 for 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,” I thought.

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.”

“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?”

“No,” I replied. “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,” 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 fruits 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 things
grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was un-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. “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 9 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 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 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 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 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.

She paused. “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.”

I was stunned. 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 in case you called. Let me read it to you.” The note says, “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.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Information please?

  1. angel says:

    read it again and got the meaning behind the sad part as u said

  2. aanchal agrawal says:

    really its a heart touching article

  3. Parham Doustdar says:

    Very nice! I loved it.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s