Thought you all might enjoy this:

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 and the 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 wonder- ful device lived an amazing person and her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know. "Information Please" could supply any- body's number and the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in- a-bottle came one day while my mother was visit- ing a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement. I whacked my finger with 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 fin- ger,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. "Infor- mation."

"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 ev- erything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She help- ed me with my math. She told me that my pet chip- munk, 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 grownups say to soothe a child. But, I was incon- solable.

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, 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 dif- ferent 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 aid. "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. 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.