~ when I was a young boy, more years ago than I now care to remember, my father had one of the first telephones in our little village ~ I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall, with the shiny receiver hanging 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 anyone's number and the correct time ~ my personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbour ~
~ amusing myself at the work bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer ~ the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point 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 parlour 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 ~ "Hello, Information." ~ "I hurt my finger," I wailed into the phone, the tears coming 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 ?" the voice asked ~ "No," I replied ~ "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts." ~ "Can you open the freezer?" she asked ~I said I could ~ "Then chip off a bit 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 India was ~ she helped me with my maths ~ she told me my pet ferret that I had caught in the woods just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts ~ then, there was the time Charlie, our pet canary, died ~ I called "Information Please," and told her the sad story ~ she listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child ~ but I was not 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 ~ "Robby, 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 I spell fix?" I asked ~
~ all this took place in a small village outside Cork in the south of Ireland ~ when I was nine years old, we moved across the Irish Sea to Liverpool ~ I missed my friend very much ~ "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the 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 time on a little boy ~
~ a few years later, on my way to a business appointment in the United States, my plane put down in Cork ~ I had about a half-hour or so before resuming the journey ~ I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now ~
~ then without thinking what I was doing, I dialled my hometown operator and said, "Information Please." ~ miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well ~ "Hello, Information." ~ I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying ~ "Could you please tell me how do I 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 you," I said ~ "I wonder if you have any idea
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