"Information Please" - "How do I spell fix?".

 When James was quite young, his father had one of the first telephones in our neighbourhood. He

remembers the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. He was too little to reach the telephone but used to listen with fascination when his mother talked to  it.

James tells:

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 anyone's number and the correct time.

My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbour. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point 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 parlour and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlour 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?" the voice asked.

"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."

"Can you open the icebox?" she asked.

I said I could.

"Then chip off a little bit 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 fruit and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called,

Information Please," and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not 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, "James, 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 in the now familiar voice. "How do I spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine 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 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 a half-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 well.

"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 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 call 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 very 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 James?"

"Yes." I answered.

"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 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.

Whose life have you touched today?

(Not my story, but important enough to share!)

Blumfelde en die Kerssangdiens

 Verlede –

Blumfelde.  Namibia. 1970’s.  Kerssangdienste was iets anders – veral as jy terugkyk.

Ons het daar naby geboer, met Karakul skape, en bokke.  My pa het in die koor gesing, iets wat hy kon doen.  Musiekmaak was hy goed mee.

Desember in die Kalahari is nie ‘n grap nie, veral nie in die sinkgebou op Blumfelde waar die Kerssangdiens elke jaar gehou was nie.  Die sinkgebou waarvan die hele kante op en oopgeslaan het – om lug deur te laat. Asof dit sou gehelp het.

Almal was daar, netjies aangetrek – ek vermoed die mans het pakke aangehad, en ek kan nie onthou of die tannies hoede gedra het nie.  Al wat ek kan onthou is dat ons moes stil sit, en dat dit warm was.  Dat niemand omgeval het van hitte-uitputting nie, gaan my verstand te bowe.  Op almal se voorkoppe kon jy sweetdruppels sien, wat blink paadjies maak het teen die slape en agter in die nek af, net om tussen die kraag en die nek te verdwyn. Warm. Taai.  Maar jy het nie geroer nie.

Onder die bome het Ford en Chev bakkies gestaan, uit die son uit – want die son sal jou voorruit laat kraak.  So entjie van die sinkgebou af was twee put toilette, langs mekaar, gereed om enigiemand in sy (uiterste) nood by te staan - snakkend na jou asem.  Hulle was meeste van die tyd in die skaduwee, net bo waar die sand begin afsak het na die rivier toe – die Olifantsrivier, wat altyd droog was.  Sonder Olifante.

Dan was daar tafels met vliegnette op.  Wittes, netjies omgeborduur – om die vlieë weg te hou.  Onder die nette was daar drinkgoed en eetgoed, flesse met koffie en hertzoggies en broodjies.  Dit is heel moontlik waar ek met Marmite en fyn biltong deurmekaar geraak het – op ‘n broodjie met botter wat geblink het van die son.

Iewers daar naby was daar altyd Poue wat “help” geroep het - terwyl almal gesing, gebid, sweet afgevee en gesels het - gesels oor die weer en weiding en familie.  Die bakkies het vuurplakke opgehad, en water – net vir ingeval.  Dit was warm en die veld droog, en amper Kersfees.  En net sodra dit draaglik begin raak het, is die saal se sink kante laat sak, geslot, en dan is almal in die bakkies, huis toe.

Hede –

Ek wonder of die saal op Blumfelde nog bestaan?  Dalk het dit ‘n stoor geword, vervang deur ‘n baksteengebou, met ‘n groot lugversorger – want ”niemand kan dit in hierdie hitte hou nie”.  Opgerig met skenkings van die boere.

Ek wonder of daar nog bakkies onder die bome staan, Hilux’e en Cruisers dalk, met ‘n Isuzu hier en daar – en dalk ‘n Land Rover, net om my gelukkig te hou.  Die nuwe gebou het dalk nou ‘n kombuis met ‘n yskas, sodat botterbroodjies nie meer blink nie.  Ek dink nie die put toilette sal nog diens doen nie – en is daar nog Poue wat “help” skree?

Ek kan nie regtig geskenke onthou nie – geskenke was daar wel, maar nie in oormaat nie.  Ek onthou egter my Chopper fiets, 1973, perserige kleur, met 'n "shifter". 

Vandag –

Gistermiddag was hier ‘n vrou wat stikwerk verkoop – plekmatjies en strykplankoortreksels, netjies gewerk en plat gestryk.  Hoeveel daarvan kan jy koop.  Vanoggend is hier ‘n man met besems by die hek – ek gaar al op.  Drie dae terug was Johannes hier – hy maak bymekaar vir ‘n kinderhuis, iewers.  By elke kruising staan iemand met ‘n bordjie – “God Bless”.  Die petroljoggies begin al glimlag as ek by die vulstasie inry – hulle weet Kersfees beteken worsbroodjies, ‘n tradisie wat ons lank gelede begin het.  

Ek wonder of kinders nog gewone trapfietse kry vir Kersfees, of moet dit nou ‘n “full suspension” hê?  Of dalk met ‘n battery – om te help met die trap?  Ek weet nie.

Black Friday is nog aan die gang, en dis nou ‘n week lank.  Almal soek goeters en dinge.

Almal pleit Kersfees.  En hou sang dienste.  Ons kerk is nie meer vol nie.

Dalk moet ons net vra vir vrede en reën – dis eintlik al wat ons nodig het. En Liefde! Vir ons en ons naaste – baie daarvan. En werk, ja, en werk ook.  

Dan sal “skenk ons ‘n helder somer Kersfees” dalk sin maak – selfs in Blumfelde se sinkgebou.

Of hoe?

MooiLoop!