#039;Information please#039; is potpourri of info
Published 12:00 am Wednesday, April 4, 2001
Note: The following story was directed to my attention by Dr. Betty Ruth Speir, M.D.-a native Greenvillian who now resides at Point Clear, Ala. In my estimation she is an individual-loaded with talent-and my favorite physician, Buster MacGuire.
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 on 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 could supply anybody's number and the correct time.
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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.
"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."
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, and she told me my pet chipmunk I had caught in the park just the other day 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-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers, feet up 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. Then 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 hall table.
Yet as I grew up 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 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 an hour or so between planes, and 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 again the small clear voice I knew so well, "Information." I hadn't planned this but I hear myself saying, "Could you 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, just ask for Sally."
Just three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered Information and I asked for Sally.
"Are you a friend?"
"Yes, a very old friend."
"Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally has been working part-time the last few years because she was so sick. She died five weeks ago." But before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?"
"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down. 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.
Buster, someone sent me this poignant story today-I loved it. It evoked such wonderful memories of wonderful Mr. Percy Langford. He always knew where everyone was "visiting", their state of being, etc., at all times. Even after I went off to college, if I dialed "392" long distance and no one was home, he would tell me that Daddy had gone to see "Miss So and So" who was suffering with indigestion, etc., and would kindly deliver my message when they got home and assure me that all was well at home. Those were the good old days. Oh, how I enjoy your column week after week.
All the camellias that I grafted are now in full bloom. Today I have a magnificent "Webb Stanley" in Mother's wonderful big bubble bowl.
Loved seeing you and Nina when we made the camellia trip to Greenville.
Am attaching the little story for your perusal.
Love, Betty Ruth.