CALLING FOR COMFORT IN DAYS BEFORE CORDLESS.

Byline: Dennis McCarthy 

If you're old enough to remember telephone switchboard operators - and your old phone number beginning with a couple of letters, like TH for Thornwall or CI for Citrus - you'll appreciate this one.

It comes from Elmer Copel of over in North Hills, who had it sent to him by some good friends living in Arkansas. It's a poignant, humorous story that takes place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest earlier in the century. The author is unknown. Enjoy.

``When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood,'' it begins. ``I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall, the shiny receiver hanging on the side of the box.

``I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it. 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. My first personal experience with her 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,' she said.

`` `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. `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,' she told me.

`` `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, and taught me how to spell fix. And when our pet canary, Petey, 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 unconsoled. 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 sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, `Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.' Somehow, I felt better.

``When I was 9, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall because `Information Please' belonged in that old wooden box back home.

``As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. 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 well. `Information,' she said. 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.'

``She said, `I wonder 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. She asked if I was a friend. Yes, a very old friend, I answered.

``She said she was sorry to have to tell me this. 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, I said.

``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.''