Rush Week
I called the folks in tears, to report the loss of the phonograph. They were suitably sympathetic, but it was still a celestial surprise when a new, identical hi-fi showed up in the mail a few days later. I still kick myself at the memory of my failure to call immediately with appropriately-effusive thanks. Makes the New Testament story of the cleansing of the lepers a sensitive passage for me, to this day.

Now, you must understand that I was not taught to be an ingrate: I must have learned that all by myself. As loving Christians, the folks did forgive me, but not without some painful moments. Still wish I could have the episode to live over. I’d do better, next time.
Westward along the Charles, shading from Boston through Brookline into Allston and Brighton, the current skyline looks more like my memories. The Citgo sign was green, back when I was alive, and it said “Cities Service.” The lighting towers near its base belong to Fenway Park, then and now home to the American Baseball League Boston Red Sox.
Well, it quickly became apparent (not without some more tears) that I wasn’t cut out to be a “frat-rat.” Anybody who knew me would have known that from the outset. I was not, however, among those who knew me particularly well. So, I ended up in the East Campus dormitories, back across the river in Cambridge

Once again, as on many occasions in my younger life, decisions were made on my behalf—even against my wishes—with vastly more wisdom that I could possibly have brought to them. With hindsight, I thank the Lord, most fervently, for guiding (dragging?) me to East Campus.
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