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 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 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 toolbench 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 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 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 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. «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 knew what Sally meant.
. , . , , . Pixar . 
Saturday`s Photograph - Summer Never Go Away