Now and again circumstance arises as a result of being an author , quizzical stuff, it is.

You may recall a description in my MEMOIRS book of seventh grade dances at Alexandria Township School. Our teacher, Mrs. Berger, (we furtively called her Pocohantas ) was, shall we say, the Commandant of Propriety.

She would patrol the dance floor, ruler in hand, assuring that all slow-dancing bodies maintained a six inch berth between them.

No passion would be fomented on her watch !

Fast forward to recent days. I was contacted by a fellow, a nuclear physicist in fact , from his home in Livermore, California. He enthused copiously over MEMOIRS of a JERSEY FARM BOY.

His name ? Bob Berger … Mrs. Berger’s son.

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I was on a visit yesterday to a doctor’s office in Flemington. A dermatologist, we had never met before. He had a fine manner about him ; an easy-going conversationalist.

Unexpectedly, he said to me, “Didn’t you write something about growing up on a farm?”

“Whoa”, I said. “How did you know that?”

“Well, your book is right out there in the waiting room”, the Doc replied.

He went on to explain that earlier today he had been studying the day’s patient list, came across my name and wondered why his secretary had indicated me as a new patient. He knew he’d heard my name before.

He sure had. He was halfway through my book!

Indeed, I was a new patient.

His confusion was a simple context thing .