Good Food For Thought..."Never Underestimate"
Never Underestimate...by anonymous
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 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. Then I creid because I knew what Sally meant.
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others. Whose life have you touched today?
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 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. Then I creid because I knew what Sally meant.
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others. Whose life have you touched today?
Comments
Post a Comment