Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.
— Epicurus
My mother worked for Kate Bitting Reynolds Memorial Hospital ("Katie B" for short), the black hospital in the community. I'm not sure what she did exactly, but as an adult I often run into people she worked with who remember my calls to the hospital. Usually, I needed help.
For example, I stepped on a rusty nail once and called my mother. That resulted in a tetanus shot, problem solved. That was a long time ago, when you dialed the number on a rotary phone starting with "PA" followed by a series of numbers. We haven't always had smartphones.
Or, on another occasion, when my sister and I were playing with a stick in the house, I ended up with a bloody nose. I remember the thunder and lightning and pouring rain outside while blood was running from my nose. First thing to do: call Maggie Irene for help.
The memory of those calls to the hospital switchboard and my mother were prompted by a story about another little boy, a telephone and help on the other end for him.
The voice on the other end resided in the box on the wall and could supply anybody's number and the correct time of day. And she knew the answers to his questions, too. He was a young boy whose father had one of the first telephones in the neighborhood.
The young boy made a wonderful discovery one day. Somewhere inside that telephone lived a person whose name was "Information Please." He would soon find out how valuable she was to him. She seemed to know everything.
He called "information" one day when he was home alone doing what most kids do when they have time to spare — experimenting. He was playing at his father's tool bench when he hit his finger with the hammer. Like the nail I stepped on, it hurt.
He stood on a footstool to unhook the receiver.
"Information Please!" Like me, he needed immediate help.
After a click or two, a small voice answered, "Information."
"I hurt my finger," he said.
The unknown voice on the other end asked, "Isn't your mother home?"
"Nobody's home but me," he replied.
"Are you bleeding?"
"No," he said, "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."
"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. He said he could. "Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger."
That was the beginning of calling "Information Please" for everything. He was able to get help with geography and even learned where Philadelphia was located. She was also somewhat of a philosopher.
"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?" he asked once.
"Paul," she replied, "always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." He didn't know why, but he instantly felt better. She had made a lasting impression on him that would last a lifetime.
It all came to an end when he was 9 years old. He and his family moved across the country. A few years later, without thinking, he unconsciously dialed his hometown operator and said, "Information Please." That small voice that impressed him as a child was still there giving out information. They realized now how much they meant to each other.
Several months later, he called again. This time, another voice answered. Sally's small voice was gone. She had died a few weeks earlier. Before he could hang up, though, the operator asked if he was Paul.
"Yes," he said.
Sally had left this message for him, expecting him to call again: "Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He will know what I mean."
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others. Someone is counting on you, today.
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