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Re: A touching story!

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  • karpani_ru
    Oh, that is a really, really touching story! Thank you Anita, I loved it! All joy, Karpani ... in ... myself ... head. ... phone. ... have ... calls. ...
    Message 1 of 3 , Oct 1, 2005
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      Oh, that is a really, really touching story! Thank you Anita, I loved
      it!

      All joy,
      Karpani


      --- In Sri_Chinmoy_Inspiration@yahoogroups.com, anitabusic
      <no_reply@y...> wrote:
      > Here is another one of those touching stories that will bring tears
      > into your eyes, and make you feel more loving than before.
      >
      > Wishing you all love and joy,
      >
      > Anita
      >
      > * * *
      >
      > Information Please
      >
      > 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,"
      > 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 just the day before would eat fruits 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 t own 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 wel
      > l, "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 v ery 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. I knew what Sally meant.
      >
      > Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.
      >
      >
      > - Author unknown
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