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Tell us about a time
when a song lyric came
vividly alive for you
On an ordinary Wednesday evening in 1986, I ate a light supper, then settled into an armchair with the newspaper. Sudden, inexplicable nausea drove me to the kitchen, where I found myself leaning over the the sink, an old Protestant hymn running through my head: “Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling / Calling for you and me . . . Come home, Come home / Ye who are weary, come home / . . .O sinner, come home.” I recently had returned to church after a 15-year break, but this was not a song my liberal congregation sang. No, these verses were from my childhood, lyrics I had not heard in years. I checked the clock on the wall — about 7 p.m. My stomach settled, and I returned to the newspaper. The phone rang shortly after 9 p.m. It was my mother, calling from Illinois. Dad had suffered an unexpected and massive heart attack while working in his garden. He died instantly. “When, I asked.” “About two hours ago. I’d spent most of my 20s in school, being steeped in the scientific method and laboratory experimentation, earning a PhD in biology. After that, I had done science-related work, with days devoted to rationally. Yet, I never doubted that I knew — to the minute — when Jesus called Dad home. |
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Tell us about a time a hand-me-down made all the difference
It was a blazing hot summer day, the kind that lets you know at 6 a.m. how unforgiving it will be. A copywriter, I dressed hurriedly for my presentation at a Baltimore ad agency, hoping my witty headlines would tear attention from my pregnant belly. The dress was a sleeveless black linen sheath, handed down from my best friend’s sister-in-law and saved for this day. It was chic in a Jackie Kennedy’s-third-trimester sort of way, with buttons noodling quietly up the back. She’d worn it through three pregnancies. No, I wouldn’t wear a slip — way too hot. With my mind on the stifling train ride, I grabbed my last pair of underwear: a thong. And so I marched confidently on, then off, the train, big black sunglasses keeping me more than a little smug. Full of purpose, I led my fellow passengers up the steep steps through the terminal. Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. The businessman didn’t dare look at me while he said, almost inaudibly, “You do realize, don’t you, that you have several buttons undone in the back.” Then he fled. I reached back and was assaulted by what so many had already endured: the startlingly naked skin of a big, fat, pregnant bottom wearing a thong. The buttonholes on the dress, it turned out, had been too stretched out to hold. In Jackie-like fashion, I kept my composure — but only with the help of the big black sunglasses. |
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Tell us about a time when a homework assignment went awry
Nearly 40 years ago, I was a young elementary school teacher in rural New England. One day, for geography homework, I assigned my students the task of drawing a map. Scott, a fifth-grader whose primary academic achievement that year had been to memorized the plots of every “I Love Lucy” rerun, approached me after class to ask if he could make a “special map.” I agreed, happy to capitalize on his initiative. “Can I make a map showing how to get from one place to another?” he asked. “Let’s do it!” I said.
He decided to use our town as a starting point and Springfield, Vt., some miles away, as the end. Together, we consulted the classroom’s atlases and a local map, then drew everything to scale, including distances, bridges, main and local roads. When we finished, I realized that Scott had conned me into doing his homework, including all the writing on our new map. But I was satisfied anyway, since this was the most academic enthusiasm he had shown in a while. That night Scott ran away from home, traveling to a friend’s house in Springfield. When the police found him, he of course showed them the map his teacher had drawn for him. The police showed up at our school that afternoon, and I had a lot of ’splaining to do. |
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Tell us about a time
when getting lost
led to a great find
In the 1950s, Floral Park was a sparsely populated suburb on the outskirts of Havana, Cuba. Because of the generosity of two land-owning great-great-aunts, it had evolved into a family compound of sorts, where relatives picked a parcel of land, built a house and settle amid the lush tropical flora. Depending on the season, it was home to between eight and 15 of my cousins, all of us younger than 18. The area was rural and, in those days, remotely situated — the closest place to buy treats was three to five miles away. Except for one afternoon in 1956. In the middle of a vigorous hide-and-seek game, some of us heard the faint bells of an ice cream truck. We came out of our hiding spots and congregated on the sidewalk, where my mother, sporting a puzzled look, met us with cash in hand. This was a first! Bells ringing louder, the truck materialized, parked and served this euphoric lot of youngsters. After a hefty sale, the driver seemed hesitant to return to the wheel. Mother took this opportunity to ask him — actually, beg him — to please return. The sooner, the better. With a tired, discouraged voice, he replied, “But Señora, I’m hopelessly lost . . . have been since noon today!” Although a detailed map was drawn for him and the remainder of his precious cargo purchased on the spot, I am sorry to report that he never returned. |
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Tell us about a time you said something you later would have done anything to take back.
Raspberry sorbet would best describe the color of our living room carpet. "The owner wants to make sure you know this is the wife's idea," the real estate agent explained…… apologetically when showing us the house about a year ago. But we loved everything else, and the location was great, so we decided to live with the carpet until we could afford a replacement. Still, I felt compelled to explain the pink nightmare to company. When people walked in, I'd often remark, "Feel free to whip your feet on the carpet; it would be an improvement." Or: "This color was not my idea, but it brought the price of the house down." At the end of our first summer in the new neighborhood, we decided to invite our neighbor to our annual barbecue. They laughed off my apologies, although one couple agreed that a nice hardwood floor would be an improvement. I had the feeling that this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. At the end of the evening, we were delighted to accept an invitation to their house the following week. Upon entering their home on the appointed night, we made the following observation, raspberry sorbet would best describe the color of their living room carpet. |
