This is a good one. Thought everyone would appreciate this. "Bob Hughey >Never Underestimate . . . >> >> 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 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 foot stool 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 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 >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. >> >> "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. >> >> Anonymous >> >> Never underestimate the impression you may make on others. Whose life >have you touched today? >> >> > ----------