Stories About Love
Information Please Part 1
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When I was quite young, my father had one of the first
telephones in our neighbourhood. I remember 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 I 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 neighbour. 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 to cry because there was no one home to
give sympathy.
I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger and
finally arrived at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly,
I ran for the foot stool in the parlour and dragged it to
the landing. I climbed up and unhooked the receiver in the
parlour and held it to my ear.
"Information, Please." I said into the mouthpiece
just above my head.
There was a click or two before a small clear voice spoke
into my ear, "Information."
"I hurt my finger." I wailed into the phone. The
tears came readily 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 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 is. She helped me with my math.
She told me my pet chipmunk which I had caught in the park
just the day before would eat fruit and nuts.
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