Sometimes it is very clear that God surprises us with the gift of a person who absolutely blesses our lives – maybe for a moment, and maybe for longer. I was on a 76-mile cycling trip with my good friend in 2021; the Capitol Trail runs from Richmond, Va., to Williamsburg, Va. We decided to book a room halfway at North Bend Plantation Bed and Breakfast in Charles City, Va. It is a more than 200-year-old home that has primarily been in one family that is related to the Harrisons and Tylers of presidential fame.
Upon arriving dusty, sweaty, and exhausted, the octogenarian innkeeper, Ridgley Copeland, greeted us and immediately gave us a hug and insisted we call her “Nannie.” What transpired was 24 hours of the most comforting and gracious hospitality in her family’s historic home. She made us promise to come back. That is exactly what I did on Nov. 11. After telling my husband about Nannie for the last three years, corresponding with her, and learning that she read my novels, we arranged to spend the night with her. She hugged us both warmly as if we were good friends or family members. We took her out to dinner at one of the only restaurants in the tiny rural town – a café with a long-held tradition and a never-met-a-stranger atmosphere.
The next morning, we entered Nannie’s kitchen, where sumptuous smells of a full breakfast awaited. “But before we eat,” she instructed, “you must sit down and let me read you a story.”
Surrounded by her bible, printed poems about God, and framed scriptures, she proceeded to read this story, which I have to share as an encouragement, which is exactly why Nannie read it to us. It was written many years ago by a Paul Villard, about whom I could not find any information; and, it was first published in the June 1966 issue of Reader’s Digest. I challenge you not to tear up or even blubber after reading this:
“When I was a young boy, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember 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 fascination when my mother talked 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 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 neighbor. 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 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.”
“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, “Wayne, 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 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. 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 Wayne?”
“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.