THERE ARE OTHER WORLDS TO SING IN!

 I have come to think of “Forwarded” email as this decade’s “Hey, did ya hear the story about…..”   Some of those stories you forget as soon as you read them and some, like the following story a Betty Brewer’s Angels supporter sent me last year, have special meaning and stay with you.  

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.

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 25^th 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 14^th so we will have enough for everyone. Yes, the deadline has been extended from the 7^th 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.