When I
was quite young, my family had one of the first telephones in our
neighborhood. I remember well the polished oak case
fastened to the wall
on the
lower stair landing. The shiny receiver
hung on the side of the
box. I even remembered the number - 105. I was too
little to reach the
telephone,
but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked into
it. Once she lifted me up to speak to my father,
who was away on
business. Magic!
Then I discovered that somewhere inside that wonderful
device
lived an amazing person - her name was "Information Please" andthere
was nothing that she did not know. My
mother could ask her for
anybody's
number and when our clock ran down, “Information Please”immediately
supplied the correct time.
My
first personal experience with this genie-in-the-receiver came one daywhile
my mother was visiting a neighbor.
Amusing myself at thetool
bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The painwas
terrible, but there didn't seem to be of much use crying because
there
was no one home to offer 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
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 fingerrr-" 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 at
home but me," I blubbered.
"Are
you
bleeding?". "No", I
replied. "I hit it 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 on your finger. That will
stop
the hurt. Be careful when you use the
ice pick," she admonished.
"And
don't cry. You'll be alright".
After
that, I called “Information Please” for everything. I asked for help
with
my Geography and she told me where Philadelphia was, and the
Orinco--the
romantic river I was going to explore when I grew up. She
helped
me with my Arithmetic, and she told me that a pet chipmunk--I had
caught
him in the park just that 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-up say to soothe a child.
But I was un-consoled.
Why
was it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to whole
families,
only to end as a heap of feathers feet up, on the bottom of a
cage? She must have sensed my deep concern, for she
quietly said,
"Paul,
always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow, I felt better.
Another day I was at the telephone. "Information," said the now
familiar
voice. "How do you spell fix?". F-I-X."
At that instant my sister, who
took
unholy joy in scaring me, jumped off the stairs at me with a banshee
shriek-"Yaaaaaaaaaa!" I fell off the stool, pulling the receiver
out of
the
box by its roots. We were both terrified—“Information
Please” was no
longer
there, and I was not at all sure that I hadn't hurt her when I
pulled
the receiver out. Minutes later, there
was a man on the porch.
"I'm
a telephone repairman. I was working
down the street and the
operator
said there might be some trouble at this number." He reached
for
the receiver in my hand. "What
happened?" I told him. "Well, we
can
fix that in a minute or two." He
opened the telephone box exposing a
maze
of wires and coils, and fiddled for a while with the end of the
receiver
cord, tightened things with a small screwdriver.
He jiggled the hook up and down a few times,
then spoke into the phone. "Hi,
this is Pete. Everything's under control at 105. The kid's sister scared him and he pulled the
cord out of the box." He hung up,
smiled, gave me a pat on the head and walked out the door. 
All this
took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. Then, when I was nine years old, we moved
across the country to Boston and I missed my mentor acutely. “Information Please” belonged in that old
wooden box back at home, and I somehow never thought if trying the tall, skinny
new phone that sat on the small table in the hall. Yet, as I grew into my teens, the memories of
those childhood conversation never really left me; often in moments of doubt
and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had when I know
that I could call” Information Please” and get the right answer. I appreciated now how very patient,
understanding and kind she was to have wasted her time on a little boy.
A few
years later, on my way back to college, my plane put down in
Seattle. I had about half an hour between plan
connections, and I spent
15
minutes or so on the phone with my sister who lived there now, happily
mellowed
by marriage and motherhood. Then, really
without thinking what
I was
doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information
Please." Miraculously, I heard again the small, clear
voice that I know
so
well:" Information." I hadn't
planned this, but I heard myself saying,
"Could you tell me, please, how to spell
the word 'fix'?" There was a
long
pause. Then came the softly spoken
answer. "I guess," said
“Information
Please,” "that your finger must have healed by now." I
laughed. "So it's really still you. I wonder if you have any idea how
much
you meant to me during all that time...."
"I wonder," she replied,
"if
you know how much you meant to me? I
never had any children, and I
used
to look forward to your calls. Silly, wasn't it?" It didn't seem
silly,
but I didn't say so. Instead I told her
how often I had thought
of her
over the years, and I asked if I could call her again when I come
back
to visit my sister when the semester was over.
"Please do. Just ask
for
Sally." "Goodbye
Sally." It sounded strange for “Information
Please”
to
have a name. "If I run into any
chipmunks, I'll tell them to eat
fruits
and nuts." "Do that," she
said. "And I expect one of these
days
you'll
be off for the Orinoco. Well,
good-bye."
Just
three months later, I was back again at the Seattle airport. A
different
voice answered, "Information," and I asked for Sally. "Are you
a
friend?" "Yes," I
said. "An old friend." "Then I'm sorry to have
to
tell you. Sally had only been working
part-time in the last few years
because
she was ill. She died five weeks ago." But before I could hung
up,
she said, "Wait a minute. Did you
say your name was Villard?"
"Yes." "Well, Sally left a message for
you. She wrote it down." "What
was
it?" I asked, almost knowing in advance what it would be. "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.
"A True Story" written by Paul Villard
Reading this story I
was reminded of the importance of the connections Betty Brewer’s Angels make
with the residents they visit in long term care facilities and how these
connections benefit both the volunteer and the resident. A volunteer will visit the same resident once
a week and, as you can imagine, a very strong one-on-one relationship is formed
by the consistency of these visits.
Through the years (Betty Brewer’s Angels have been visiting five years
now!) some of the special people our volunteers visited have died. While we
know we helped bring joy during the time we visited with them, I think it is good for our volunteers and for
everyone, to remember “There are other worlds to sing in.”
If you are interested in hearing more
about the work Betty Brewer’s Angels do or are interested in being a part of
our volunteering team, please contact me at 614-309-4677.
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| Having Fun at a Buckeye Party |
BETTY Brewer’s Angels
April News
A new event on our calendar for this
year is a Volunteer Potluck being held on April 25th at 1 pm. The
people of Ironwood Club House located off of East Broad Street (near Mt. Carmel
East hospital) have graciously offered to rent their Clubhouse for this
event. Our volunteers love to exchange ideas and give encouragement to each
other. We learn so much from these types of conversations and by the way,
laugh so much! This will be a very
informal event with no guest speakers.
Just bring food to share. Betty Brewer’s Angels will provide drinks and
place settings. Once
again guests are welcome (and you do not even have to bring food and we will still let you eat<--smiling here) Just let me know if you will be attending by April 14th so we
will have enough for everyone. Yes, the deadline has been extended from the 7th
to the 14th because I know most of you were busy last week.
Please come join us and learn
firsthand from our volunteers the rewards of being a Betty Brewer’s Angels
Volunteer.
