How I must have looked when reading the Sears catalog rather than the book shown

In April 1975, at the end of my senior year in college, I took a copywriting test to try to get a job writing blurbs for the Sears Roebuck catalog. It would be fun to live in Chicago and work in the Sears Tower, I thought. By this time I’d already been rejected by several large companies for their management training programs, thank heavens, because I had no interest in that type of career. I thought I had a good chance at the Sears job, and the catalog was very familiar to me.

"When you were hardly even three, you would sit with the Sears catalog on your crossed legs."

Although I remember the catalog clearly in my home, with its gargantuan size, infinite variety of items, and thousands of pages, for some reason there seemed to be more to the memory. When I mentioned to my parents that I’d taken the Sears Roebuck test, they both burst out laughing, and continued even after my puzzled expression. “I guess you don’t remember ‘I’m gonna buy you,'” my dad said.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I replied. My mother explained. “When you were hardly even three, you would sit on the living room rug, or on the grass outside, with the Sears catalog on your crossed legs. You would flip through the pages and point to each picture, and then say ‘I’m gonna buy you …’ and name the item and give a detailed description. You named a lot of them and then would ask what some of them were, so you learned so many nouns that way. You did this for more than a year. By the time you were in first grade and learning to read, you read the catalog.”

My parents’ explanation made the memory fit, and I always enjoyed looking at the clothing in the catalog, although my family never ordered anything that I recall. These days, printed catalogs that come to me are few and far between, and while I love a lot about Amazon, especially the convenience, it is nice to remember the weight of that Sears catalog on my lap and the engagement I had with it.

What happened with the copywriting test? I passed with flying colors and was rated highly qualified. However, 1975 was a year of bad recession, and Sears wrote that they regretted they weren’t hiring for the foreseeable future. There went my fantasy of living in Chicago and working in the Sears Tower, but from then on I’ve had a soft spot for that enormous catalog of the 1950s.

Sloths really do hang out in the trees near Puerto Limon, Costa Rica, on the Atlantic coast.

I’ve never been a fan of rickety trains or small aircraft. Traveling in them always seemed too dangerous. The balance of risk-reward changed when my mother and I journeyed to Costa Rica in 1980 to visit my brother, who was serving in the Peace Corps in the mountains about an hour from San Jose. We enjoyed touring by car where we could, but the roads in many parts of the country were unreliable or impassible back then. To visit the Atlantic and Pacific coasts, means other than driving were required.

As the train progressed ... people boarded with fruit, produce, and the occasional chicken and goat.

At the time there was a train that ran from San Jose, in the center of the country, down to the Atlantic coast port city of Limon, about a six-hour ride. Locals used the train, and there was an English-speaking guide to orient tourists to the various ecosystems. The first day we tried to get on the train, we were notified that it had derailed. Not a great confidence builder.

A day later, we boarded the narrow-gauge train and started traveling through hilly areas, first passing the prime coffee plantation land. As the train progressed, clickety-clacking down slopes, people boarded with fruit, produce, and the occasional chicken and goat. The landscapes varied as we traveled, heat and humidity increased, and we entered a rain forest, followed by banana plantations. As we neared Limon, we could see sloths lazing in the trees. The train brought us safely into the city, where we stopped for a cool drink before going to a small airport.

There, we boarded what looked like an old military plane from the 1950s, with large propellers. It sputtered and its engine was very loud, but it managed to bring us safely back to San Jose after what was a fascinating sightseeing day on a train.

A few days later, my brother made arrangements for the three of us to stay at a hotel in Jaco Beach, in Guanacaste province. There were essentially no roads between this Pacific coast area and San Jose that weren’t complete rivers of mud. The only way to get there was to fly in a Cessna that held six people. The three of us boarded the charter plane with some trepidation, especially because the one airport in San Jose had commercial jets taking off all around us. The other passenger on the plane spoke reasonably good English and explained that he was a mechanic, on his way to our hotel to fix the generator. We might have electricity if he was successful.

Our nervousness turned to excitement as we flew low over beautiful green rain forests, occasionally punctuated by volcanic mountains emitting delicate trails of steam and smoke. Within the hour, we landed in a rice field near the coast, where children ran to the plane to greet us, just like in a movie. Our hotel faced a beautiful, unspoiled beach, looking very much like Hawaii before tourism. To the back, jungle crept just a few yards away from the building, and while the generator repair man was successful, that night we turned off the lights to watch many pairs of eyes blinking at us through the thick leaves.

Costa Rica has done a terrific job with responsible ecotourism, but I am very grateful to have seen the country as it was right before this development. Roads are now greatly improved, so the rickety train no longer exists. Going to Jaco Beach, which is now a first-world-level resort, is a safe, easy drive from San Jose. While I like the comforts of modern trains and planes, I’ll always remember the amazing scenery from the older versions in Costa Rica.

This beautiful image is from a 1911 storybook.

I hardly remember the details of this fairy tale, but my mom tells me that at about age three, I was absolutely fascinated by one of the images in the Little Golden Book version of “The Town Musicians of Bremen.” There was something about the four animals–a donkey, dog, cat, and rooster–working together and looking into the window of a house, that resonated. I have no idea why my three-year-old self picked this image, but it is delightful, and one of the most touching moments in the story.

The original of this Grimm fairy tale was published in 1819, and it is odd indeed.

Thanks to Wikipedia, I now know more about the story. The original of this Grimm fairy tale was published in 1819, and it is odd indeed. The four animals were aging, and had outlived their usefulness on the farm, and were either neglected or mistreated by their owner. (I find this very meaningful now, but I doubt this angle made it into the Little Golden Book.)

The foursome set off, intending to become musicians in the German town of Bremen. On the way they came to a house, and when checking it out in the manner shown in the featured image, saw a band of robbers enjoying their ill-gotten gains. The animals worked together to scare off the robbers, with a lot of violence in the original story.

The animals never made it to Bremen, but stayed comfortably in the house. Wikipedia gives a code that is used by folklore specialists that indicates that it is a type of story found in other countries as well. The message of the story? As an adult, I’m impressed by the lessons about teamwork, and that elders aren’t useless and deserve respect. What I loved as a child is the gentle humor of the four different animals collaborating to find a safe refuge, and revisiting that part of the fairy tale has given me a smile.

The photo doesn’t do the Stickley chest justice.

This story is in gratitude to team leader Michael and my mother for their creativity, which led to my nicely furnished condo.

For independents like me, retainers are unheard of.

In the year 2000, after I sold my Menlo Park house, which has been the subject of many of my stories on Retrospect, I bought a small (960 square feet) but pretty condo. In the recent story The Condo, the Boyfriend, and the Desk, I recounted how I got my amazing desk for the tiny bedroom I used as my office.

Several months before that, when I was ready to move into the condo, I realized I had almost no furniture that I wanted to bring, with the exception of a Mission style entertainment cabinet and a sofa bed. Almost everything else in the house had been donated to me, and it either needed to be returned to the lender or it was in such rough shape that I was ready to trash it rather than donate it again. I didn’t even have a bed–I’d been sleeping on the sofa bed but wanted to use as a “real” sofa in the condo’s small living room. I would need a lot of furniture.

I had a lucky break: some money in the bank I’d earned as a retainer on a project. Lawyers in our group are no doubt familiar with retainers, usually an amount of money per month paid to “retain” their services, whether the client uses them or not. But in marketing and communications, retainers are rare, even among large ad agencies. For independents like me, they are unheard of.

The Retainer

In 1998, I had begun work with a startup company in the pharmaceutical field as part of a 10-person team. We were developing the content and format for a new drug application to be submitted to the FDA. The work was challenging and interesting, and occasionally grueling, with the submission ultimately ending up at about 250,000 pages. After about seven months, in the beginning of November, we were planning to assemble the final summaries and arguments, reference all the data and do quality assurance on it, and put together the submission in sets of binders (submissions still had to be on paper back then).

Michael, the team leader, approached me one afternoon and said it was essential that I be available to the project, to do whatever the team needed, for the rest of the year. “We are betting the company on the submission,” he said, “and I will make it worth it to you with a retainer.” The terms were strict. I had to be available 24/7 and even on holidays until the submission was complete, and I couldn’t travel more than 90 minutes away from the company’s office in Sunnyvale.

“Yes,” I immediately replied. While I did work hard for the next two months, the team finished the submission and there were no emergencies and few late evenings, so I came out way ahead with the retainer.

A few months later, my client’s team was thrilled to learn that the FDA approved the submission, so the company could operate. The following year it was acquired by a larger pharma company, and I worked with Michael and the team there, but the spirit wasn’t the same. We kept in touch for a few years after that.

Fun with Furniture

Once the condo closed, I asked my mother, who had been a professional interior designer, to help me with furnishing the condo. One challenge was that the style that year was oversized furniture, and my space was way too small for for all the fussy, puffy chairs and couches. If I spent carefully I could use the retainer money to cover furnishing the entire place, and it would allow me to go to a high-end store for one or two quality pieces.

There, the furniture was beautiful and the prices mind melting. I picked two identical Stickley chests that I loved to use as nightstands (we still use them in our current home). When the salesman asked what else I would like, I explained that I loved all this nice furniture but the chests were really a bonus, and for the rest I was on a working-girl budget.

I expected him to sneer, but instead he was very understanding and suggested we visit Ethan Allen, which had good quality furniture that would fit my budget. There, with help from my mom, I got a dining table and chairs and a hall table that converts into a game table, all of which are in our current house. A glass coffee table for the living room was a find at the Oakland Museum white elephant sale.

A new bed arrived from a mattress store, and then, when I looked around the condo, not only did it feel like home, it felt like me, no small thanks to the retainer, Michael, and my mom.

While I occasionally (OK, more often than that), long for the days of interacting with a live person, some things are now best done online or by phone menus by serving yourself–provided that what you want to do fits how the website or phone system has been set up. Should you get through to a live person, it can be irritating dealing with someone poorly trained or with an incomprehensible accent. However, the people on the phone can be just as powerless to help you as you are to help yourself when they are stuck with inflexible scripts and software.

At that point I press 0 and get a voicemail saying the mailbox is full. Click ...

Therein lies the problem with customer service today. Technology, even systems that claim to be artificially intelligent, isn’t intelligent enough. Tech tries to make things simple, but if you already have a problem, you want service because it isn’t simple, right? Take phone menus as an example.

“Please select what you are calling about,” says the automated voice system. “Select 1 for x, 2 for y, 3 for z … 23 for aa …  or 38 for other.”

“Hmm,” I think, “What I’m calling about is a combination of y and z. Do I select y or z? Maybe I should go with other. Maybe I should try 0 for a person.” At that point I press 0 and get a voicemail saying the mailbox is full. Click …

Chatbots are no better. They always want to chat with me and seem so friendly, until I enter my question. The response? “Sorry, I don’t understand. Can you make your question simpler?” I am tempted to respond, “No, I can’t. My problem is difficult. If it were simpler, I would have solved it myself.”

If I am fortunate enough to get a real person on the phone, I’ve been impressed by their efforts to help. After explaining the situation, I hear the clickety clack of their computer keys as they attempt a solution. My favorite example happened this year, when I kept trying to interact with my Medicare Part D prescription drug plan’s website, which was abysmally organized, would not retain my entries, and was having trouble communicating with my doctors for mail order prescriptions. At the end of a long troubleshooting session, the person gave up and said, “Just refill your prescriptions at the local pharmacy. I can’t get this to work properly.” I applaud her honesty.

Sometimes the customer service person tries to be helpful and ends up making more work for me. This happened to me recently when I received a call from the state of California’s health department. After spending a couple of minutes figuring out that the call wasn’t a scam, I agreed to let the person help me make an appointment to get a COVID booster really close to where I live.

This was something I easily could have done online myself, but the state was calling all “seniors” to be helpful. After answering a few questions, I commented to the person, “You know, this is complicated because I work, I’m a caregiver, and I get sick for two days after the shot, so timing is everything.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied, “our system is really smart, so once we get the appointment set up, and you get the email, you can go online and change the date and time.” “OK, let’s see how this works,” I thought.

It worked–not. What I was afraid of happened, because it’s happened before. The state used a very smart geographical search engine to find the location closest to my house, a Walgreen’s in Milpitas, and gave me an appointment at 3:20 PM midweek. That store is the closest in mileage, as the crow flies. Unfortunately, to get there from my house, one has to drive on one of the busiest freeways in the Bay Area, in the afternoon commute, which starts here at 2 PM, where there is road construction and where new FasTrak lanes have been installed. I would need to plan on a 45-minute drive.

I went online to the Walgreen’s site to find a new date, time, and location, and while I could change the date and time, I couldn’t change the location. So, I ended up canceling the appointment, going online to the CVS website, and getting an appointment at a store farther from my house in mileage, but with a 10-minute drive time–at a date and time that I wanted.

The helpful customer service person, who was doing what he thought was right, ended up costing me extra time and effort. I’m sure we all have these stories, but I must acknowledge the people for trying. Our technology will just have to get smarter so that we will get real service.

My nonalcoholic drug of choice.

Anyone who meets me, even casually, soon learns that my drug of choice is caffeine, usually taken as black coffee. I have been using this drug consistently since the age of 11. Other drugs and alcohol, not so much. I am not a teetotaler, nor am I against drugs that expand consciousness. Although I was more risk averse about substances ingested than many of us who grew up in the 1960s and early 1970s, in my case it was primarily biology that held me back.

While others around me seemed bright, relaxed, and happy, I became dull, sleepy, and sad ... And, I could tell, very clearly, that I was physically impaired.

It wasn’t until much later that I understood the role that metabolism, genetics, and the types of receptors in the brain (which vary from individual to individual) play in our responses to drugs and alcohol. But by the time I was in college, I knew that alcohol and I didn’t get along well. To my great discomfort, I found that beer, red wine, and champagne triggered violent migraines and nausea, which they do to this day.

I could tolerate modest amounts of white wine, but I noticed that, at social gatherings, while others around me seemed bright, relaxed, and happy, I became dull, sleepy, and sad. In my brain, the alcohol failed to induce a high and directly became a central nervous system depressant. And, I could tell, very clearly, that I was physically impaired. Even after a half glass of wine, I wouldn’t be able to drive safely.

During my senior year, there was a large Hawaiian luau party on campus in the evening, and drinks were offered to those over 21. Never having consumed hard liquor, I decided to see what effect it had on me, and I doubted the drinks would be strong. So, I had two Mai Tais about an hour apart. I vaguely recall stumbling back to my dorm, and woke up the next morning on my bed, still in my party clothes. I didn’t remember entering the dorm or my room. No hangover, though … I concluded I would lose consciousness before I could drink enough to have a hangover.

I am blessed with compatible receptors for cannabis and I get along well with it, occasionally enjoying the mild buzz. It never interested me enough to seek it out, but I would take it if offered. Now I am mostly interested in it in edible form for a bit of relief from muscle pain. Ah, how times have changed.

As far as alcohol, not drinking can have advantages. In college I could “chaperone” the Mills freshwomen at the Berkeley frat parties we were invited to and know that we’d be safe. No one seemed to mind that I wasn’t drinking. Anyway, all the beer thrown around at those parties smelled awful! Later, when I worked at events for the alumnae association, I could tend bar without being tempted by the offerings.

When I entered the work world in the mid-1970s, I found some odd attitudes about alcohol. My first job was at a technical company and I really enjoyed the people, who partied hard and had a lot of happy hours. Some of the managers felt threatened by my not drinking alcohol, and one senior level person, who was paying for the drinks, insisted I get something alcoholic. I complied but somehow managed to surreptitiously pour out most of the contents.

Over time, attitudes toward drinking have changed, and people didn’t think it odd that I was having a nonalcoholic drink. At parties, sometimes I am asked if I am a “Friend of Bill,” which is the code name for being in AA. This does not offend me, but I reply negatively and say that alcohol simply disagrees with me. Also, in my last full-time job I had a Muslim coworker, and when our group went out for happy hours she felt more comfortable knowing there was another person not drinking.

When I look at the featured image above, I can smell that freshly ground coffee, so I will continue to enjoy that beverage and leave the alcohol to those it makes happy.

The filing cabinet unit from my desk shows the beautiful wood and hardware. The actual desk is too messy to photograph.

The year 2000 was a very exciting and happy one for me. I started dating “J,” finally sold my old house in Menlo Park, and bought an easier to maintain condo in Los Altos. After a series of ups and downs, my business was growing again. The condo was technically a two bedroom because a long, narrow area off the living room had a sliding door, an egress window, and a tiny closet about 18 inches wide. This room made a perfect office. In the Menlo Park house, I had a motley collection of office furniture, either bought used, or in the case of my desk, a horrid metal item, “liberated” by my former brother-in-law from the State of California Facilities dump.

Most of the desks were beautiful, and one in particular stood out. I choked when I saw the price tag ...

Among the many unusual characteristics that J had was that he loved to accompany people shopping. Generally I don’t like to shop with other people, but there was something about J’s attitude that made shopping very pleasant. Soon after I moved into the condo, he commented that my business had been established for quite a while, and it was time to invest in some really good quality office furniture. Part of me resisted–after all, no one saw my office except me. But I hated that god-awful metal desk, so I agreed to investigate.

J knew a few elegant office furniture stores to check out. Given the financial stresses and strains I’d had in the previous decade, I’d never even entered such places. My money went to necessities, with occasional nice clothing for business and socializing. Most of the desks in these stores were beautiful, and one in particular stood out. It was huge and L-shaped, made out of solid maple, and would fit under the window and around the corner on the small wall of my office. It came with a rolling three-drawer file cabinet. There were shelves and slots in the back and underneath to manage wires and cables.

I choked when I saw the price tag–about $3,000. I’d never spent as much on anything at one time other than houses and cars. J encouraged me, reminding me that I could write the purchase off on my taxes. My business and I were worth it! After a few deep breaths, I handed the salesperson my credit card. The new desk turned out to be perfect in my new office, and I could leave the door open so it could be seen from my living room.

The relationship with J ended the following year, and the year after that I met Dick. In 2004, I sold the condo when Dick and I bought a house together. The new house, where we still live, has a “real” bedroom as an office. When I moved from the condo, I carefully measured to be sure the desk would fit, and emptied the contents into separate boxes because the desk is so large that I worried about its weight.

It turned out that the desk was heavier than any other furniture we moved. I remember wondering if the movers could even get it up the stairs. Once it arrived safely, the desk looked beautiful. After 22 years, it looks like I bought it yesterday, and its solid wood is indestructible. It is spacious enough to hold my printer, scanner, two computers, phone, radio, standing files, and anything else I want to put on it.

The desk turned out to be a great investment, very useful, and aesthetically pleasing. I am grateful to J for giving me the push I needed for what was then a big splurge.

Author’s note: There is another story about how I ended up furnishing the rest of the rooms in the condo, which I’ll write about in the upcoming prompt “Feathering our Nests.”

I’ve been privileged to have had many fine teachers throughout my schooling and even professionally. They have enlightened, challenged, and inspired me. But one provided something different–a sense of being part of a group and feeling welcome. That was Mr. Charles E. Gauntt, sometimes known as Mr. G, sometimes as Chuck, my high school drama teacher for three years. Mr. Gauntt was an odd-looking man, narrow shouldered and broad in the beam. His hairline had moved far back, revealing a smooth forehead. He had bags under his bulging eyes, and a receding chin. He looked like a cross between a bullfrog and Gollum from Lord of the Rings.

Mr. Gauntt had a way of making the drama department inclusive, even though the word wouldn't have been used at that time.

Despite, or maybe because of his appearance, Mr. Gauntt was an excellent character actor and skilled director. Besides his directorial and teaching responsibilities at our high school, he took on roles in community theater, where I volunteered during the summer. There, he played Grandpa Vanderhof in You Can’t Take it with You–from a wheelchair after he broke his leg. The show must go on: a valuable lesson.

He taught me a lot about drama, technical theater, acting, and directing, assigning me to assistant direct Mr. Roberts and helped me survive the chaos of a crew of teenage boys. More than that, Mr. Gauntt had a way of making the drama department inclusive, even though the word wouldn’t have been used at that time. Somehow everyone in his classes and plays learned to collaborate as an ensemble and respect each other. No matter that we were a motley combination of jocks, cool kids, geeks, and outsiders who for whatever reason didn’t fit in. In drama class, we did. There, I made the first longstanding friends of my life.

The theater, backstage, and the drama office became a refuge from the standard difficulties of high school and for me, from a strained home life. In class and rehearsals, I could escape a home full of stress and conflict, feel a sense of accomplishment, and have a hell of a lot of fun. When a character in Pride and Prejudice got appendicitis three days before the show opened, Mr. Gauntt tapped me to go on for her, and supported me all the way. Others felt similarly supported, and sometimes we had alumni visit who had become professionals in the performing arts thanks to Mr. Gauntt.

Unfortunately life did not go well for Mr. Gauntt after I graduated. Likely he was bisexual but closeted, and had a mental illness (possibly bipolar disorder) that wasn’t well diagnosed at the time. After a manic/psychotic break, he received electroconvulsive therapy, which was much stronger than it is today, and had periods of memory loss. He died a few years later.

I couldn’t find an image of Mr. Gauntt that I could scan, but when I opened my senior yearbook, I found a written message from him: “My dear Marian: You are NOT leaving, you will always be here and welcome. All my love and thanks, Mr. G.” Thank you, Mr. Gauntt, for making me feel welcome and showing me that I belonged.

I was and am the woman to the right, a skeptic.

A combination of temperament, upbringing, training, and circumstances has led to my present approach to procrastinating–or not. Even as a child, I was hypervigilant, biased to “doing it now,” which I likely inherited from my father. Procrastinating caused too much anxiety, amplified by my mother, who was habitually late and last minute, which created a lot of chaos in the household. Also, I was taught that school was “my job” and I had to learn on my own to manage my schedule, homework, and the like. Good training! In college I did very few all-nighters and lived in a dorm wing of majority “do-it-now-ers.” We’d finish our work and have fun later.

It was time to learn a new strategy, which I call selective procrastination.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I entered the business world and got a shock about schedules and deadlines. Unlike school deadlines based on academic calendars, many weren’t real, I found out to my consternation, but manufactured to make teams look competent to higher management, and to make it seem like progress was being made. I went through a couple of years of frustration, practically burning myself out to meet deadlines, only to find at the last minute they had been moved, or the project had changed or been canceled.

It was time to learn a new strategy, which I call selective procrastination. With enough business experience under my belt, I began to assess how grounded the deadlines were in reality and how stable a project or team was. That way I could do all, part, or none of the work involved by the “official” date. Turns out this approach was robust; I avoided wasted work and time for the most part. There was a small risk that my assessment could be wrong, that I hadn’t done all the work and it would be required by the deadline. This happened, but rarely.

The most notorious incident was being on a multi-year-long technical writing project, with the product launch being put off every couple of months. It was mid-December and I was exhausted because, believing in the past few deadlines I’d been given, I’d postponed any vacation for over a year. Management pronounced that the product was launching by the end of the year.

Over Christmas, I thought? I told my client contact I was taking the final two weeks of the year off because I didn’t believe the deadline, and he agreed. I’d completed about 90% of the work anyway. When I returned after the first of the year, I found that the product had indeed launched, and two chemists had patched together the last 10% of the work and made a real mess. Despite this incident, selective procrastination does work most of the time.

Recently I have returned to a more “do it now” practice, being less dependent on business deadlines established by often clueless management. As a family caregiver, I strive to do tasks when I see a window of time, because who knows when the next window will open? Doctor’s appointments arise or change at the last minute, someone isn’t well, or one elder’s needs take priority over the other’s, or mine. I always have a plan B, and sometimes a plan C. Does this reduce anxiety? Not much, but at least things get done.

Author’s Note: I didn’t procrastinate and wrote this story on a Tuesday, four days before it went live. Normally I have to write much closer to the go-live date, but I had a rare open couple of hours. Would there be time later in the week? Turns out there wasn’t, because of emergency dental appointments, long phone discussions about a relative’s medical issue, and three new projects from clients. Glad I “did it now.”

Most of us have been privileged to witness memorable performances, and I can clearly recall many of them for a variety of reasons. When I was ten, I saw my first “adult” Broadway musical in summer theater. Maybe not the best performance, but I have clear memories of it. I fondly recall the plays and musicals I performed in for high-school drama class for the positive impact they had on my confidence. And, when I went to London for a month-long college course, I saw many outstanding plays and well known actors. I soaked up everything and loved the trip, despite being so poor that I ran out of money and survived on bread and Ovaltine for the last week.

The second the music began, it was transcendent.

Stanford University, which is about a 30-minute drive from my home, offers a theater, dance, and music series. We have seen many terrific performances of all kinds there, several worth a story for this prompt. However, although my musical knowledge and talent are limited, a musical performance stands out among everything I’ve seen past my college days. In the early 2000s, Dick found that Itzhak Perlman and Yo-Yo Ma would be giving a concert at the large Memorial Auditorium on campus. We jumped at the chance to see and hear them live.

Our seats were high in the balcony, and we brought opera glasses with us that evening. The first part of the concert featured Perlman, who was wonderful, as expected. I have no recollection of the program played. After the intermission, Yo-Yo Ma came out. As with Perlman, I have no recollection of what he played, except that the second the music began, it was transcendent.

Perhaps because my ear isn’t trained, visual information during a musical performance has a great effect on me. I took the opera glasses and looked at Yo-Yo Ma as he played. I have never heard or seen anything like it before or since. The music didn’t seem to come through the cello, but came directly through him. It was as if I could walk up behind him and gently lift the cello and bow away, and the music would still be playing. If I then closed my eyes and imagined what heaven would sound like, it would be that solo cello, which encompassed the whole universe and felt like a hug at the same time. What a night, what a performance, what a gift from Yo-Yo Ma.