I had an email exchange with one of my brothers this weekend. He related a strange occurrence that involved finding something unexpected in a book. I instantly recalled a similar and even stranger story that to this day I have not figured out. I wrote briefly about it proximate to its occurrence on October 26, 2014. The email that I sent my brother is below, it is only slightly edited and it tells the full story:
When I took the paper out I felt how old it was, it was thin and the center crease was deeply impressed. I unfolded it and on top in blue was the letterhead of dad's business:
"Ben,
I was reading a bio of FDR, got interested in one particular thing about the electoral history of New York state, pulled an old book from my grad student days off my bookshelf and went into my "reading room" to continue my researches. I had referred to this book dozens of times before. I sat on the toilet and the book flopped open to a random page. There was a folded note pad sized white piece of paper between the pages. It was obviously not a bookmark, no part of it stuck out as reminder for the future and in fact I had never seen it when I had taken the book down on prior occasions.
When I took the paper out I felt how old it was, it was thin and the center crease was deeply impressed. I unfolded it and on top in blue was the letterhead of dad's business:
"Ben,
When you get down, pray a little to God. It really does help.
-Dad"
That's from memory but that was the gist of it. I could not have been more surprised if Dad himself had been stuck between those pages and come alive and I had NO MEMORY WHATSOEVER of having received the note, of having read it previously, and no memory at all of what upset in my life might have occasioned it. Boston, where I went to grad school, was the happiest, most carefree year of my life, I assumed that Dad wrote it while I was living there, maybe after a trip home. I could not think of what could have gotten me down that year of all years that would have so bothered me that I made it, or general "down-ness," known to my parents. I was completely flummoxed.
I finished in the bathroom. I was intensely focused on researching and went back to reading in my bed on which I had 3-5 other books scattered. Some time later, maybe 1/2-1 hour, I thought, "I have to do something with Dad's note," had to put it up some place, put it with my family stuff or something so that it didn't get lost for another quarter century. I couldn't find it.
That's from memory but that was the gist of it. I could not have been more surprised if Dad himself had been stuck between those pages and come alive and I had NO MEMORY WHATSOEVER of having received the note, of having read it previously, and no memory at all of what upset in my life might have occasioned it. Boston, where I went to grad school, was the happiest, most carefree year of my life, I assumed that Dad wrote it while I was living there, maybe after a trip home. I could not think of what could have gotten me down that year of all years that would have so bothered me that I made it, or general "down-ness," known to my parents. I was completely flummoxed.
I finished in the bathroom. I was intensely focused on researching and went back to reading in my bed on which I had 3-5 other books scattered. Some time later, maybe 1/2-1 hour, I thought, "I have to do something with Dad's note," had to put it up some place, put it with my family stuff or something so that it didn't get lost for another quarter century. I couldn't find it.
I took the book I had found it in and thumbed through it; puzzled, I went through the book turning each page individually; now panicked, I went back to the john with the book and sat down just as I had and let the book flop open where it would since that was how I had discovered it. Nothing, nothing, and NOTHING. I thumbed through the other books I had on the bed, looked on the bed to see if I had laid it aside; went into my closet to see if I had put it among some of the family stuff I have there. By this time I was despondent, checked one more place, the bookshelf in my living room where I keep other family stuff. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. I never did find it.
It was like a visitation, it came and then it went. I wondered if I had had some sort of hallucination. God, I can see it now; I can see it's size, see it folded in the book, can see the blue gothic letterhead, can see Dad's handwriting, can feel the crease, but all from my memory. It's gone.
