While brainstorming for this blog, I came across an old email I had saved. Though it centers around a now-outdated form of communication, the story carries a timeless message: about the power of kindness, the relationships we form, and the lasting impression a sincere connection can leave.
When I was a boy, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. It was a polished wooden box mounted on the wall, with a shiny receiver hanging at its side. I was too small to reach it myself, but I would listen in awe as my mother spoke into it. This magical device seemed to connect us to a distant world.
One day, I discovered that inside that phone lived a remarkable person. Her name, as far as I knew, was “Information Please.” She seemed to know everything: phone numbers, the correct time, and answers to all kinds of questions.
My first personal encounter with this mysterious helper happened when I was home alone, amusing myself at the workbench in the basement. I accidentally hit my finger with a hammer. It hurt terribly, but with no one around to comfort me, I just wandered the house nursing my throbbing hand.
Then I saw the telephone.
I dragged a footstool from the parlor, climbed up to reach the receiver, and said, “Information, please,” into the mouthpiece.
After a few clicks, a small, clear voice answered, “Information.”
“I hurt my finger…” I cried, and the tears flowed freely now that someone was listening.
“Is your mother home?” she asked gently.
“No,” I sobbed. “Nobody’s home but me.”
“Are you bleeding?”
“No,” I said, “I just hit it with a hammer, and it really hurts.”
She paused, then asked, “Can you open the icebox?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Then chip off a little ice and hold it to your finger.”
It worked. From then on, I called “Information Please” for everything. She helped me with geography, told me where Philadelphia was, explained math problems, and even advised what to feed a chipmunk I caught.
When our pet canary Petey died, I called her in tears. She listened patiently and comforted me. When I asked, “Why do birds sing so beautifully only to die and end up as a pile of feathers?” she said gently, “Wayne, always remember… there are other worlds to sing in.” And somehow, that helped.
I even asked her how to spell words, like the time I said, “How do you spell fix?”
All of this happened in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my old friend dearly. The new phone was sleek and modern, but to me, “Information Please” belonged to that old wooden box back home. I never tried calling her again.
Still, I never forgot her. As I grew older, her voice and kindness remained with me—a comforting memory in times of doubt.
Years later, while on a layover in Seattle en route to college, I had some time to spare. After a quick call to my sister, I dialed my old hometown operator without really thinking.
“Information,” came the familiar, gentle voice.
Instantly, I was transported back. Without planning it, I blurted, “Can you tell me how to spell fix?”
There was a long pause. Then she said softly, “I guess your finger must have healed by now.”
I laughed, overwhelmed by the recognition. “It’s really you,” I said. “Do you have any idea how much you meant to me?”
“And do you know,” she replied, “how much your calls meant to me? I never had children of my own. I always looked forward to your voice.”
We spoke a while longer. I told her I’d be visiting again soon and asked if I could call her.
“Please do,” she said. “Just ask for Sally.”
Three months later, I was back in Seattle. I called and asked for Sally.
“Are you a friend?” the operator asked.
“Yes. A very old friend.”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “Sally had been working part-time for the past few years. She was sick and passed away about five weeks ago.”
I felt a lump rise in my throat.
“Wait,” the operator said. “Did you say your name was Wayne?”
“Yes,” I replied, surprised.
“She left a message for you. She wrote it down just in case you called. Let me read it.”
“Tell him there are other worlds to sing in. He’ll know what I mean.”
I hung up the phone with tears in my eyes. Yes, I knew exactly what she meant.
The moral: Never underestimate the impact you may have on someone else.
The question: Whose life will you touch today?
I’d love to hear from you! Feel free to share your thoughts with me at DrKimmel@Kimmelpsychology.com.
