"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 and 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 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 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"  "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 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 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 things grown ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. 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 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 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 our 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.  "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." 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 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 know what Sally meant.  Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.