Time Capsule Illustration and story for editors query by James E Smallwood

Tell us about a time you found a surprise in your own backyard

Twelve years ago, when I was five, the last thing my 7-year-old brother and I wanted to do was move to a new house. On our last day at our old home in Sterling, we went to our favorite spot in the back yard, the corner behind the doghouse, and sat crying. Suddenly overcome with anger, I snatched up a plastic shovel and began hitting the ground with it, spewing bits of grass and dirt everywhere. My brother picked up a stick and joined me. We stopped when we heard a clank. Looking into the new hole, we saw a dark circle. My brother took the shovel and, digging around, pulled out a rusted coffee can. He peeled it open, revealing a whistle, a comic book, and other items. At the bottom was a piece of paper. Unfurling it, my brother read aloud: “This is the time capsule of Brian and George. We’re 10 years old and moving from this house. We’re leaving our stuff here so we can come back and get them when we’re old and gray.” That day, we added my brother’s harmonica, my favorite toy horse, a pencil and our own note. We reburied the can, vowing to return when we were old and gray.



Wrong order Illustration and story for editors query by James E Smallwood

Tell us about a time when what was ordered was not what arrived

About 30 years ago, when I was a struggling graduate student, a friend’s parents invited me to a fancy French restaurant in New York City. They had eaten at fine establishments around the world. Me, I had barely flown on a plane, and my “dining out” was getting a slice pizza. I might as well had been in a foreign country. As uncomfortable as I was, it became apparent during the ordering that I was the only one at the table who could speak French. Not that I could carry on a conversation with a real, card-carrying French person, but in front of non-speakers, I thought I sounded pretty good. I decided to show off and order my meal en francais. The waiter was patient and helped me impress my tablemates, who never knew that the minute of small talk had exhausted my entire French vocabulary. As for my main course, I asked for le canard a l’orange (duck in orange sauce). When dinner was served, I was surprised to see something that looked strangely like Jewish gefilte fish land on my plate. Trying to look like nothing was wrong, I asked the waiter, in French, what the dish was. Apparently, when spoken with a heavy New York accent, “canard” and “quenelles” (a mousse of pike in a champagne sauce) sound almost the same. Too embarrassed to explain, I just nodded, said merci and made the most of my fancy gefilte fish.



Racist diner Illustration and story for editors query by James E Smallwood

Tell us about a time you realized someone close to you was not the person you thought you knew

He was one of my best friends as an undergraduate at George Washington University. When I returned to the area from graduate school in the mid-1970s he offered me his couch as a place to stay until I got my apartment, then helped me move in.  To thank him, I took him out to dinner at his favorite restaurant in Georgetown. We were escorted to a seat by the door. As our meal was being served, my friend pointed out a black couple who had just walked in. “Watch this,” my friend said to me conspiratorially. The host invited the black couple to stand in a corner by the bar until a table became available. Shortly thereafter, a group of white people walked in and were seated instantly at a nice table. This happened repeatedly until the black man, who looked agitated, approached the host. Clearly displeased with the host’s response, the couple stormed out of the restaurant. I looked at my friend, puzzled. “Do they not serve black people in here?” I asked.“No, my friend replied, then leaned back and took a long drag on his cigarette. “That’s what I like about this place.” I’m embarrassed to tell you that I didn’t make a scene, and we finished dinner. But we never spoke again after that night.



pot head Illustration and story for editors query by James E Smallwood

Tell us about a time you learned too much from someone else’s room

One boring summer day about 40 years ago, when I was 12 years old, I decided to clean my older brother’s room. After dry-mopping all the dog hair underneath his bed, I started dusting his drop-leaf desk, which looked like a squirrel’s nest inside. I removed all the contents, brushed all the excess debris into the wastebasket and polished the wood with lemon oil before organizing and neatly replacing everything. That evening, my 14-year-old brother returned home after a long day of caddying at the local golf course and headed straight for his room to change clothes. After a minute or two, he called me in and closed the door behind us. “Did you clean my room?” he asked. I nodded proudly. “What did you do with all my stuff?” he asked.“I put it all back,” I said.“What did you do with the leaves?”“Oh, I threw those away.” His face got really red, and he put both hands on his head as if he were keeping it from shooting off into space. As he turned to leave, he said in a barely audible voice, “Don’t clean my room anymore, okay!” It was only a few years later that I realized I had dusted several ounces of marijuana into the trash that day. Today, my brother and I laugh about it, and he keeps his nose clean and his room tidy.



farhana Illustration and story for editors query by James E Smallwood

Tell us about something someone did for you that earned your undying loyalty

It was late February 2002, and my sister's two year wait to adopt a baby from China had finally come to an end. Then, a few weeks before we were schedule to depart to get her daughter, we were shattered by the news that our mother's brain cancer had returned — for the fourth time. As Mom's condition worsened, my sister and I struggled with what to do. We didn't want to leave our father and brother to cope alone. But if we didn't go, Lisa would lose her daughter and be back on the waiting list. Mom settled it. "Grab the baby and run," she said. Of course, between china and U.S. paperwork, nobody "grabs a baby and runs." We were gone for 13 days, with Mom spiraling downward into a coma. Enter my friend Jan, someone who understood losing a mother. Telling the ICU staff that she was my mom's sister, she went regularly to sit with Mom while we were away. She would hold Mom's hand and tell her that we'd be home soon — she just had to hold on a bit longer. Mom was still with us when we returned and was able to meet her granddaughter, and I have always believed That Jan's gift of herself had a lot to do with it. If Jan called me from Alaska, at 3 in the morning, and needed me to post bail for a lot of money, in person — I would be on the next plane, no questions asked.