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Poster: Brian Matthews <wilthain@handy-man.com>

Sorry to post it here.... but I could'nt not share this
wingedwolf@juno.com wrote:
> I thought this was touching and had to share - Sorry to thoses of you who
> may have already received it!
> Wind to thy Wings!
> Keja Ruvni
> or Candy  (otherwise known as "Mom")
> --------------------------------------------------------------
> 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 plane, 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.
> -------------------------------------------------------------
> --------- End forwarded message ----------

                             In service..... 
                            Wilthain Westbram 
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