Come sit a spell. The day is warm, and till the sun decides to creep to the other side of the grounds, lets sit in the shade, and sip iced tea. We can swap stories of the old days. My grandmother used to shell peas sitting in a rocker on this old porch, and she would tell me stories...wonderful stories...
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 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?"
"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
day before 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 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 hall table. Yet 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, 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 heard myself saying, "Could you
tell me please how to spell fix?"
There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess that
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 sick. She died five weeks ago." But 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. 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.
He was driving home one evening, on a two-lane country road. Work, in this small
mid-western community, was almost as slow as his beat-up Pontiac. But he never quit
looking. Ever since the Levis factory
closed, he'd been unemployed, and with winter raging on, the chill had finally hit
home.
It was a lonely road. Not very many people had a reason to be on it, unless they
were leaving. Most of his friends had already left. They had families to feed and
dreams to fulfill. But he stayed on. After all, this was where he buried his mother
and father. He was born here and knew the country.
He could go down this road blind, and tell you what was on either side, and with his headlights not working, that came in handy. It was starting to get dark and
light snow flurries were coming down. He'd better get a move on.
You know, he almost didn't see the old lady, stranded on the side of the road. But
even in the dim light of day, he could see she needed help. So he pulled up in front
of her Mercedes and got out. His Pontiac was still sputtering when he approached
her.
Even with the smile on his face, she was worried. No one had stopped to help for
the last hour or so. Was he going to hurt her? He didn't look safe, he looked poor
and hungry. He could see that she was frightened, standing out there in the cold.
He knew how she felt. It was that chill that only fear can put in you. He said,
"I'm here to help you m'am. Why don't you wait in the car where it's warm. By the
way, my name is Joe."
Well, all she had was a flat tire, but for an old lady, that was bad enough Joe crawled
under the car looking for a place to put the jack, skining his knuckles a time or
two. Soon he was able to change the tire. But he had to get dirty and his hands
hurt. As he was tightening up the lug nuts, she rolled down her window and began
to talk to him. She told him that she was from St. Louis and was only just passing
through. She couldn't thank him enough for coming to her aid. Joe just smiled as
he closed her trunk.
She asked him how much she owed him. Any amount would have been alright with her.
She had already imagined all the awful things that could have happened had he not stopped. Joe never thought twice about the money.This was not a job to him. This
was helping someone in need, and God knows there were plenty who had given him a
hand in the past. He had lived his whole life that way, and it never occurred to
him to act any other way. He told her that if she really wanted to pay him back,
the next time she saw someone who needed help, she could give that person the assistance
that they needed, and Joe added "...and think of me".
He waited until she started her car and drove off. It had been a cold and depressing day, but he felt good as he headed for home, disappearing into the twilight. A few miles down the road the lady saw a small cafe. She went in to grab a bite to eat,
and take the chill off before she made the last leg of her trip home. It was a dingy
looking restaurant. Outside were two old gas pumps. The whole scene was unfamiliar
to her. The cash register was like the telephone of an out of work actor, it didn't
ring much.
Her waitress came over and brought a clean towel to wipe her wet hair. She had
a sweet smile, one that even being on her feet for the whole day couldn't erase.
The lady noticed that the waitress was nearly eight months pregnant, but she never
let the strain and aches change her attitude. The old lady wondered how someone
who had so little could be so giving to a stranger. Then she remembered Joe.
After the lady finished her meal, and the waitress went to get her change from a
hundred dollar bill, the lady slipped right out the door. She was gone by the time
the waitress came back. She wondered where the lady could be, then she noticed something
written on a napkin. There were tears in her eyes, when she read what the lady wrote.
It said, "You don't owe me a thing, I've been there too. Someone once helped me
out, the way I'm helping you. If you really want to pay me back, here's what you
do. Don't let the chain of love end with you."
Well, there were tables to clear, sugar bowls to fill, and people to serve, but the
waitress made it through another day. That night when she got home from work and
climbed into bed, she was thinking about the money and what the lady had written.
How could she have known how much she and her husband needed it? With the baby
due next month, it was going to be hard. She knew how worried her husband was, and
as he lay sleeping next to her, she gave him a soft kiss and whispered soft and low,
"Everything's gonna be alright, I love you Joe."
