Textbook Amy Krouse Rosenthal Read online

  I had a dream I was on Fresh Air. After her signature introduction—from WHYY in Philadelphia, I’m Terry Gross with (PAUSE AND ENTHUSIASTIC LILT) Fresh Air!—she turned to me and asked, So, what are your thoughts about the election? I sighed and said, Can’t we talk about something beautiful, Terry? Like the nice sound you can make by circling your finger around the rim of a wineglass?

  To hear a few renditions of a humming wineglass, text Cheers.

  One is performed by a Master Sommelier, one by me, and one by my cousin, whose name is also Terry Gross.

  serendipity

  1. If you like something, you tend to be on the lookout for it. And if you’re on the lookout for it, you tend to find it, or it—Yoo-hoo! Over here!—finds you. And so it goes, for me, with serendipity and coincidence. It’s something I like, so it’s something I notice and attract.

  2. People often share anecdotes with me. I know you will appreciate this, they say. Indeed, I can be counted on to validate the remarkableness of their tales, bringing my hands to my cheeks and exclaiming in all the right places. I feign nothing. Even people I am meeting for the first time (but who are familiar with my work and leanings—it’s not exactly a subtle theme) will go straight from a handshake into full-on serendipity story mode. Like Christopher, a bookseller I met on one of my very first book tours. He told me that he was born in Colorado, reminded me that Denver is known as the Mile High City, and that a mile is exactly 5,280 feet. Then he revealed his full name and birthday: Christopher Denver from Colorado was born on 5/2/80. It is the one and only thing I remember about that trip.

  3. What if, instead of being enchanted by coincidence and serendipity, I was, say, all about rug hooking. I imagine there would be a similar course of events: I’d always be looking for cool rug-hooking kits; I’d eventually amass a decent collection; I’d write an article for a crafting magazine with the title “Rug Hooking . . . Hooked!”; I’d create posts with the hashtag #hugarughooker; people would be excited to show me their rug hook pillows.

  4. Years ago I read an article in The New York Times Sunday Magazine about the mathematics of coincidence. It was fascinating, and I was happy to find it again online, as fascinating as ever. Lisa Belkin wrote:

  Something like that has to be more than coincidence, we protest. What are the odds? The mathematician will answer that even in the most unbelievable situations, the odds are actually very good. . . .

  “The really unusual day would be one where nothing unusual happens,” explains Persi Diaconis, a Stanford statistician who has spent his career collecting and studying examples of coincidence. Given that there are 280 million people in the United States, he says, “280 times a day, a one-in-a-million shot is going to occur.”

  5. But still.

  6. I want to share this: Jason and I were at an art lecture. The speaker mentioned something about “Dürer’s Rhinoceros,” which I had never heard of. Summary: Albrecht Dürer / 16th-century German artist / had never seen a rhinoceros before / drew one based solely on the descriptions of others / keep in mind this was pre-photography. I made a note to read more about this German artist and his famous rhino rendering later. I came home from the event to find a letter waiting for me in the mail. It was from Germany. It was from a group that calls itself the Rhino Pupils.

  7. And this: At a book reading, I decided I was going to give away my snowglobe ring to someone in the audience. It wasn’t because I didn’t love the ring—I actually really, really loved the ring—but rather because I was trying my hand at nonattachment. I asked, Who would like this ring? A couple dozen arms shot up. I then asked those individuals to consider how badly they wanted the ring; if they felt that someone else should maybe have it, would they please put their arm down. A few eager limbs remained in the air. I looked at each person carefully. One woman standing in the back struck me as most needing/wanting the ring. It’s yours, I said, pointing her way. But I had one request; I asked if she would please pass the ring on to someone else a few months down the road. She agreed. I told her it would be extra great if she could do so on my birthday, April 29th. No problem, she said, smiling. April 29th is my birthday too.

  8. And this: I heard an unusual thump at our front door. If it was a Sunday morning, I might have thought it was a tossed newspaper. But it was a Monday afternoon. When I opened the door and looked down, I realized what had happened: A poor bird had flown into our window. This had never happened before. I quickly found the number for a bird rescue service. They said to bring the bird inside the house and place it gently inside a shoe box. While waiting for them to arrive, I noticed a letter sitting atop a pile of papers on the dining room table. I didn’t recognize it, wasn’t sure where it had come from, and then I remembered: Over the weekend Jason had been going through a box of childhood mementos. The letter was one he had written nearly forty years ago. In his little-boy handwriting, the note began: A bird was in our house . . .

  9. And last one for now, this: When Miles was born, my aunt gave me a silver link bracelet engraved with his name and birth date. I put it on and never took it off. Two decades passed. One summer afternoon I was standing in the kitchen, unpacking groceries. Miles was heading back to college soon, returning for his sophomore year. His specific departure and general growing-up were both weighing heavy on my mind. Like a hand appearing from out of nowhere and resting on my shoulder, my subconscious whispered: It’s time to let him go. The heartbreaking and nearly audible message stopped me in my tracks. A split second later I heard a clink. I looked down and saw my bracelet in a tiny heap on the counter. All these years, it had never once slipped off, so I was confused. I realized it did not slip off—the clasp had simply worn all the way down. This just happened to be the moment it let go.

  10. About these coincidences, the data and mathematicians are clear: Such things happen all the time. Then again, Einstein (pretty good at math) was also quite clear when he concluded, There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.

  11. I’m going with B, everything.

  To share a serendipity story from your own life, (and/or view stories from other readers), go to Serendipity at textbookamykr.com.

  Wyoming is the farthest-away state, Miles told us one night at dinner. He was little, maybe six at the time. We weren’t sure what he meant. Farthest away from where, sweetie? After some prodding we came to understand his comment and logic: He assumed that Wyoming’s position on the map correlated to its alphabetical position (which is to say 50th) among the states. Wyoming was somewhere way out there, the last in line.

  FIG.1 United States of America in alphabetical order

  Jason was biking to work when his contact lens popped out. Within a few seconds, five or six people hopped off their bikes to help him look. The image of this spontaneous, collegial huddle of strangers is worth pausing to fully conjure.

  Things were not looking too hopeful. Then: Got it! Got it! said one fellow, hand high in the air, lens pinched between fingers. When Jason thanked him, he said, Hey, no problem. One time I found my friend’s contact lens at the bottom of a swimming pool. Apparently this was the single best person you could possibly hope to run into in such a situation.

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  When I came back from India, I was absolutely, positively 100% sure I was going to use a lot of turmeric.

  Our babysitter Emily was at the gas station when she encountered a desperate soul trying to sell a puppy for a few quick bucks; she promptly bought/rescued the dog. She told me this when she walked in the door that day, adding that the puppy was now safely in her car (windows cracked open) and that she was going to take him to the animal shelter after work. Would it be okay to bring him in the house? she asked. Alas, while sleeping dogs lie, I cannot. I did not say, Of course, Emily, no problem. W
hat I said was, I’m sorry, Emily, but I do not want the kids knowing ANYTHING about this dog. They were 7, 9, and 11 at the time and had been beggggging for a dog for approximately 7, 9, and 11 years. My short answer was always a shade of no, never:

  No, never—you know I don’t like dogs.

  No, never—I will not be responsible for another living thing.

  No, never—I don’t even want a plant.

  A couple hours later, the kids were all home from school. Justin had a dog-walking job, so he set off on his usual route around the block. I went into my backyard studio to do some writing. If I were an accountant instead of a writer, perhaps I’d have done a better job of putting two and two together. No sooner had Justin left than he came running back through the door, screaming, Emily! Emily! There’s a puppy in your car! Do you know there’s a puppy in your car?! Miles, Paris—Emily has a puppy in her car!

  You can imagine the fanfare and quaint pleading. I fake-listened intently, and then, in the most emphatic way possible, inserted a nonnegotiable before my no, never.

  Jason not only agreed, but if this were a contest, he might have even been crowned hatingest hater.

  The next day, I left for an out-of-town work trip. When I called to check in with the kids, I learned—in between their giddy shrieks and me saying Wait, what? Slow down, slow down!—that Jason had fallen both a) under a spell and b) in love with the dog. This was very, very not good.

  I returned home a few days later. It turned out to be not only the first but also the last time I was unhappy to see Cougar Rosenthal run to the front door to greet me.

  FIG.1 Amy Cougar

  It takes a snowflake two hours to fall from cloud to earth. Can’t you just see its slow, peaceful descent?

  Jason and I were in a cab. We came to an intersection with signs on every corner. The sign straight ahead said DEAD END (going straight: not an option). The sign to the left said WRONG WAY (going left: not an option). The sign to the right said ONE WAY (going right: only viable option). The cabdriver was about to go straight. Jason quickly directed him to go left. I believe the exact words I blurted out in exasperated disbelief were: Guys. Seriously?

  Hmmm. That woman stepping out of the shower sure is hairy—my last thought before realizing I had walked into the men’s locker room.

  I read A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway’s memoir of his writerly life in 1920s Paris, when I was twenty and living in that same city. Every time he wrote about something I recognized or frequented (a street, a monument, a café), I’d enthusiastically underline, highlight, circle, double star. Perhaps taking a cue from Hemingway’s first name, I filled the narrow margins with my wide-eyed scrawl. In the end, the book became an annotated, tiered treasure—a travelogue atop a travelogue.

  Why I loaned the book to my housemate that spring, I will never know. What I do know is this: It was left on a train, Hadley-style.*

  Surely someone came across it that day. Maybe it was handed over to an employee at the station who then sold it for a few francs to a used bookstore. Maybe it was kept and filed with the H’s on the finder’s bookshelf, picked up on occasion, and thumbed through quizzically. (Ça veut dire a-w-e-s-o-m-e?) I suppose the book could also just have been tossed—it was a slight paperback after all, weighty only to its owner.

  Of the many, many cherished things I have lost over the years—a leather-bound notebook filled to the brim with ideas: gone; a marionette puppet I crafted for my parents: gone; an entire suitcase at the airport: gone—that copy of A Moveable Feast is the only item I often think about and would very much like back.

  If you know anything about my lost copy of A Moveable Feast, text Have clue.

  FIG. 1 I found this diary on the sidewalk in Mysore, India, in 2006. I’d like to return it to you, Aria.

  I am looking out the hotel window. There are hot pink and fuchsia flowers as far as I can see. For no particular reason, I take a small step back.

  An aproned woman hanging clothes on a laundry line across the way is unexpectedly added to my range of vision. I reflexively step forward to my initial spot, returning to the lush and uncluttered image. But as soon as I do, it washes over me that the version with the flowers and the woman and the drooping laundry line is just as—maybe even more—beautiful.

  I step back again.

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  SOCIAL STUDIES

  There is an individual honey packet peeking out from under the passenger seat of my car. It’s been there for months. The first time I spotted it, my hands were full, so I left it to throw out next time. Then the next time I was like, Oh yeah, there’s that lone little honey packet. From that point on, I haven’t been able to bring myself to discard it. It can’t be that it’s too much trouble—it involves reaching down and picking up a minuscule item. It can’t be because I don’t care about the cleanliness of my car—I keep it rather tidy. I can only conclude that, for some reason, I have become attached to the honey packet.

  My favorite Craigslist experience started with a simple posting: I’ll wish you luck in exchange for you wishing me luck. The offer was sincere, not one bit silly or coy, but I wasn’t sure how it would come across, how people would interpret it. But they totally got it. People emailed back asking for me to wish them luck on their divorce, luck with their new boss, luck finding a new job, luck finding an apartment. I asked them to please wish me luck with my children, and with my latest book. I had several meaningful and sweet email exchanges. Some time later—and you’d really have to be digging backward to have found my inital posting—I received what turned out to be the final email. I don’t know if you still need it, but I wanted to wish you the best of luck. You can do it.

  He asked for nothing in return.

  Text a short good luck message for yourself or someone else.

  Every January 1st, all messages will be gathered, placed inside a bottle, and tossed out to sea.

  First, text Bottle.

  I had been toying with the idea of a minimalist wardrobe for nearly a decade. I always imagined that having a set daily uniform would feel fabulous and freeing. In hindsight, I’m not sure why I thought this; it’s not like I’m well put-together—I spend about ten seconds getting ready every day. In any event, on one fittingly drab January 1st, I decided, enough thinking about the sartorial experiment. It was time to actually do it.

  The rules I set for myself were these: I would wear gray pants and a solid black top. Because I like to wear casual, flippy dresses, it was deemed that plain black dresses would also be allowed. These permissible garments remained in my closet; I had a few of each—enough to get by and still be a clean person. Everything else was either given away or shoved into—I mean neatly folded and placed into—a black Hefty bag, which then camped out in my crawl space for fifty-two unfashionable weeks.

  I didn’t tell anyone except my family and a couple close friends about this endeavor. Why?

  Because: weird.

  Because: who cares.

  Two, three months into the project I started having pangs of uh-oh, this is miserable. But there was no turning back. I knew I was in it for the long haul, both for my own follow-through reasons and also because teenage Paris was into it in a that’s-odd-and-I-would-for-sure-never-do-that-but-good-for-you-for-sticking-with-your-dumb-project sort of way.

  About six months in, on the eve of heading out of town for a book tour, I decided I was going to be naughty and cheat on my project. It’s perfect! I thought. Some people go away on business and cheat on their mates, and while that version isn’t my thing, this wardrobe-cheating version is so my thing! I rationalized my planned indiscretions by saying it was good fodder for my experiment. Oh, how I loved sneaking into the crawl space that night and grabbing one patterned dress after the other. It was, I believe, the first time I ever experienced feelings of euphoria while p
acking.

  The first stop on my tour was Minneapolis. Our old babysitter, Emily, had moved there and showed up at the book signing with her adorable new baby. Of course I had to take some pictures to send to the kids. Two seconds later I got a text back from Paris.

  Busted. By a careless text. It was so comically cliché, even down to my quick, frantic reply: I can explain!

  When I returned home from that trip, I had a few more months to go. Getting dressed was always easy but never pleasing. I trudged along to the finish line.

  In the end, after twelve monotone months, the most illuminating thing was this: No one noticed. Not one single person ever said to me, Amy, why are you wearing those same gray pants and black shirt every time I see you? This information is equal parts humbling, depressing, and liberating.