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 great interest 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.

My first personal experience with Information Please came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. I accidentally hit 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 hurting finger, finally arriving at the stairway—the telephone! Climbing up I unhooked the receiver and held it to my ear. “Information Please,” I said.

A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear, “Information.”

“I hurt my finger…” I cried. 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 sobbed. “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.”