Miracle

the hidden hand of god

CHAPTER one:

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

Written by Rick Archer

Synchronicity

Dr. Carl Jung:

"Synchronicity is the coming together of inner and outer events in a way that cannot be explained by cause and effect and that is meaningful to the observer. Synchronicity is an ever-present reality for those who have eyes to see.

As a psychiatrist I have often come up against the unusual phenomena in question and could convince myself how much these inner experiences can mean to my patients. In most cases they were events people do not talk about for fear of exposing themselves to thoughtless ridicule.

I was amazed to see how many people have had experiences of this kind and how carefully the secret is guarded. So, my interest in Coincidence has a human element as well as a scientific foundation."

Miracle

A surprising and quite welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency.

A highly improbable or extraordinary event that brings very welcome consequences.

The Hidden Hand of God revolves around a serious crisis in my Senior year of high school, 1967-1968. Due to several bad decisions on my part compounded by some tough breaks, I had just seen my dreams of college go up in smoke. Adding to my misery, I knew my mistakes were directly responsible for my cruel setback. Mired in depression, I could barely make myself move. Full of anger towards myself for sabotaging my future, thoughts of suicide shadowed me like the grim reaper. How was I ever going to escape the trap I was in?

This is the story of the event that changed the course of my life. To me, it was a Miracle. I will share the tale and let you be the judge.

Rick Archer

1959, Age 9, 4th Grade

blackmail

In order to understand my Senior year trap, we have to go back nine years to the beginning. 1959 was the year I started 4th Grade at St. John's, an elite private school located in Houston, Texas. To be quite frank, I had no business being at this school. My admittance was what most people would call a fluke. St. John's is considered the top academic school in Houston, perhaps the state. Due to its reputation, SJS is exceptionally difficult to get into. It is also very expensive. Given there was no possible way my father could afford this place on his middle-class income selling electrical equipment, what was I doing here?

To be frank, I owed my elite education to my father's mistress. Should I thank her? Probably not. My life had been pretty good until the mistress came along. Now I was miserable. I was 9 when this woman's presence shattered my parents' marriage. For the past year, my mother and father had fought like dogs virtually every night of the week. My father had asked for a divorce, but refused to divulge the real reason (take a guess).

When my mother said no, he decided to make her acutely miserable. His tactic was to criticize my mother in every way possible as a lousy mother and lazy housekeeper living a life of comfort while he worked himself to exhaustion every day.

My father's nasty tactics made me crazy. Listening to them argue each night, I turned into a sullen, angry, insecure kid. As an only child with no family friends or nearby relatives, I had no one to turn to. Forced to live alone in this house of horrors, I became very disturbed. Sad to say, I acted out in school. My grades were mediocre and I disrupted my 3rd Grade class so often that my parents were called in.

Upset over my poor grades and severe discipline problems, my parents sent me to their psychiatrist. After testing me, the doctor had a surprising suggestion. What I needed was a stiff challenge. Send me to St. John's and let the competition work its trick. That is where his two boys went and they thrived. Mom was for it, but Dad was against it. Given my father's low opinion of my intelligence, he was stunned when I managed to pass the SJS entrance exam and receive an invitation to attend. Dad said forget it, there was no way on earth he could afford the tuition. Let the kid stick to public school where he belongs.

Mom was fed up. They had been arguing for a year and getting nowhere. Sick and tired of the impasse, Mom stunned my father with an offer. "Pay Richard's costly tuition for three years and you can have your divorce." Dad immediately balked. He would have to go deep into debt to pay for this. Mom countered with blackmail. "Jim, I know about your mistress. I will take you to the cleaners and ruin your life unless you cooperate. Do the right thing for a change and let's put an end to this bickering."

It turns out my mother was bluffing. She had no proof, but "knew" in that way women sense things. Unwilling to stand up to her threat to go scorched earth, my father caved in immediately. For the next nine years, St. John's School would become the center of my life.

1962, Age 12, 6th Grade

CONSEQUENCES

My father did not appreciate being blackmailed. Feeling strong-armed into compliance, he turned his back on me. My father was bitter over being forced to pay three years of tuition far beyond his means. He saw it as a disgusting waste of money despite the fact that I did well academically (as the psychiatrist had predicted). In fact, I never missed the Honor Roll once in nine years. Equally upset was the mistress. As promised, my father married her, but what she did not expect was being forced to keep working in order to help my father pay the SJS tuition. It galled her no end to realize every cent she earned was spent on my behalf. Her honeymoon was budgeted, there was no money to buy a house and they had to delay starting a family. Infuriated, this shrew took it out on me. The moment they were married, she constantly bickered over my father's bad deal. Dad decided it was easier to abandon me than stand up to his domineering wife. I had gained a school, but lost a father.

For the next nine years, St. John's would be my sanctuary, the anchor which kept me glued together while my mother fell to pieces after the divorce. She quickly remarried, a huge mistake. The new husband was an ex-con with a fondness for excessive drinking and passing hot checks. He beat my mother several times when he had been drinking. One night in desperation, Mom called my dog Terry for help. One snarl from Terry put a quick stop to the violence. As for the man's parenting skills, he tried to get me hooked on cigarettes and stole my cherished silver dollar collection to buy booze. One day the cops came looking for him. Although the marriage only lasted half a year, the misery continued due to my mother's neverending penchant for collecting losers and bringing them home to live with us. You might think I am kidding. Guess again. This went on for nine years.

In addition to my mother's bad habit of picking up strays, she had trouble holding a job longer than a year. My mother did not have a college degree. When my parents married, she dropped out of college to support my father while he got his degree. Her lack of credentials cost her dearly in the job market. Due to her frequent unemployment, the bills mounted. One way to solve the problem was to skip out whenever the unpaid rent grew too high. We moved 11 times in 9 years. The problems did not stop there. Every two months or so I would come home to find the electricity turned off. Or the water. Or the gas. I am fairly certain I was poorest kid to ever attend St. John's.

Given my mother's emotional problems, she did not have much energy left over for me. With many of her nights devoted to cruising the bars, I was forced to take care of myself starting at age 10. Abandoned by one, neglected by the other, I had no parent to offer common sense advice on how to cope with my underdog status at the rich kids school. Here is an example. I was consumed with envy at my classmates' lives of privilege. It would have been nice to have a parent willing to remind me to look on the bright side. Unlike a lot of kids in this world, I never went hungry and I always had a roof over my head. Plus I was getting a great education. Rather than appreciate what I did have, I grew bitter from daily reminders of how much better my classmates had it than me.

It was obvious from my appearance that I came from a different walk of life. Although we all wore the same uniform at St. John's, one look at my shoes was usually enough. My chipped tooth removed any remaining doubt. By definition, every child at my school was well cared for. Best clothes, impeccable social skills, contact lens, braces, chic haircut, etc. And here I go with the chipped tooth, hair that sticks up straight, cheap clothes, thick glasses, and eyes that don't match due to my blind left eye.

Given that my mother was too broke to have the tooth fixed for two years, it sent a clear message that money must be short in my home. Starting in the 6th Grade I became low man on the social totem pole. I was never bullied. Nor was I insulted to my face. But I was ignored. The moment my privileged classmates realized I wasn't one of them, it became tough to turn acquaintances into friends. Academically I belonged at SJS, but socially I was out of my league. Unable to play sports due to my blind left eye and untrained in the social graces due to my deplorable parents, I will be the first to admit I did not fit in at this school. Over the course of nine years I developed a severe sense of social inferiority. Although I appreciated my wonderful education, I hated my loneliness.

A key event in my future Crisis took place at the end of the 6th Grade. Dad's three years were up. No longer legally obligated to pay my tuition at SJS, my father told me his money was better spent placed in a college fund. Referring to this as his "College Pledge", my father promised the money saved would be waiting for me when the time came. Broken-hearted at being forced leave SJS, I begged him to change his mind, but got nowhere. Fortunately I caught a last-minute lucky break. Informed of my father's decision, Mr. Chidsey, the Headmaster, took note of my good grades and offered a scholarship. This explains how I was able to attend St. John's for six more years till graduation.

September 1967, Age 17, 12th Grade

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

MR. Salls

My Senior year Crisis was not the product of one particular event, but rather a complicated series of problems. The first problem occurred in September 1967. Mr. Salls was the new Headmaster, taking the place of Mr. Chidsey. We knew each other well. Mr. Salls had been my German instructor for the past three years. Although we never spoke on a personal basis, I could tell he appreciated how hard I worked in his class.
Mr. Salls made it a point to meet with each Senior early in the school year to discuss college preferences. I had my heart set on Georgetown University in Washington, DC. My beloved Aunt Lynn and Uncle Dick lived just across the Potomac River in McLean, Virginia. I wanted to be close to them. I had been working as a grocery sacker after school for the past two years. By the end of my Senior year, I estimated I would have $2,000 at my disposal. That was a lot of money back in those days. That plus six years of savings in my father's College Fund should be enough to pay for Georgetown. Or so I assumed.

For some mysterious reason, during our meeting Mr. Salls completely ignored Georgetown despite my explanation why this school was my one and only choice. He insisted I apply to Johns Hopkins University, a school I had never heard of. The moment I discovered it was a men's-only school, there was no way I was interested. Due to my sense of inferiority, I was already fearful of rejection were I to ask one of the flawless future debutantes for a date. A serious case of teenage acne put a swift end to any remaining courage. Given that I never had a single date in high school, the thought of going to a men's school was out of the question. Sensing my reluctance, Mr. Salls took the extraordinary step of asking me to apply to Hopkins anyway as a favor to him. I agreed to do so, but why was he bullying me?

I was very angry at Mr. Salls when I left his office. He had made me promise to apply to a college I had no interest in. The thought of wasting $75... two weeks of work at the grocery store... on a senseless application fee made me sick to my stomach. It was standard procedure for my classmates to apply to ten schools, maybe more if they felt like it, but that was Daddy's Money. This $75 was coming out of my own thin pocket. I was so bitter that I unwittingly made a serious mistake. I had intended to apply to the University of Texas as a backup option. However, to save money, I said to heck with UT. Using the money to apply to Hopkins instead, four months later I would deeply regret this decision.

NOVEMBER 1967, Age 18, 12th Grade

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

little Mexico

In addition to my error regarding the University of Texas, in the coming Spring I made a second error that would cost me dearly (we will get to that shortly). In order to make this error, I had taken complete leave of my better judgment. Perplexed by my uncharacteristic recklessness, why would I make such a mistake? The best explanation was extreme stress related to an idiotic move on my mother's part. This is the story of 'Little Mexico'.

Late in my Junior year, my mother finally found steady employment in Houston's famed Medical Center. She decided to buy a ramshackle house in a largely Hispanic part of town. Mom wanted to move here as a way to make her Mexican boyfriend Ramon more comfortable. Given her shabby credit history, I have no idea how she persuaded a bank to loan her the money.

Say what you will about my father, but he deserved credit for his reliability on child support. He never missed a payment and was always on time. My mother and I were extremely dependent on this money. Its appearance would allow us to get the lights turned back on or make a much-needed visit to the grocery store. In November 1967, for the first time in eight years, Dad's monthly check failed to appear. This was serious. Without my father's child support, my mother could not afford to pay her house note.

My mother was so confused, it took two days to realize what was wrong. When she bought the house, my mother had assumed my child support would continue until I finished high school seven months down the road. However, my father had not sent a check for November because he was no longer legally obligated to pay child support after my 18th birthday in October.

Uh oh. My panic-stricken mother had made a colossal blunder. Well aware she had purchased this house with no margin for error, my mother should have had the sense to anticipate this child support problem. Too late now. I offered to make up the difference with my grocery store money, but my mother said no. Without telling me, she had already cooked up a wild scheme. My mother's solution was to invite Janie and Linda, Ramon's younger sisters, to come up from Mexico. They were expected to get jobs in one of the nearby cantinas and pay rent.

One night I came home to find two young women had moved into the bedrooms next to mine. Surprise Surprise. Within two weeks, Janie and Linda had boyfriends. My mother gave their boyfriends permission to come live with us as well, a decision that included Enrique's 2-year old boy Manolo. I was never consulted, probably because my mother knew I would scream bloody murder. Keep in mind I had grown up an only child accustomed to silence. Suddenly there seven other people in this house besides me. This included my mother and six Mexican immigrants, none of whom who spoke English. Given their fondness for loud Ranchero and Mariachi music, the place was a madhouse at night. The ensuing culture shock turned my world upside down. College could not come soon enough.

JANUARY 1968, Age 18, 12th Grade

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

the Jones scholarship

At the turn of the 20th Century, a visionary named Jesse H. Jones proposed turning Houston's slow-moving Buffalo Bayou into a world-class ship channel. It was a brilliant move. The massive widening process was completed in time to allow ships from the new Panama Canal to visit. Shortly after that came World War I with a massive demand for oil. Thanks to the Texas Oil Boom, the Houston Ship Channel exported tons of barrels overseas. This is how Houston became the Energy Capital of the world.

Now a very rich man, Jesse Jones looked to his legacy by creating a scholarship fund. Every year one graduating Senior from each Houston high school would receive a $4,000 stipend ($1,000 per year for four years). I counted heavily on winning this award. In addition to my good grades, I assumed my status as the poorest kid to ever attend SJS guaranteed I was a shoo-in. However, I was worried something was wrong. It was January and so far no one from St. John's had mentioned this scholarship to me. The winners would be announced in March, so I was troubled by the lack of contact. I should have asked someone, but I was acutely introverted at this time in my life. As a result, I remained completely in the dark.

I was also worried about my father's College Pledge. According to him, for the past six years he had placed money equivalent to the annual SJS tuition in a college fund. If he had done what he promised, there should be about $10,000 waiting for me. However, when I saw my father for lunch shortly before Christmas, he did not say a word. Considering college was just around the corner, why was the important subject of college finance bypassed? Bottom line, I did not trust him. This is why I had gotten my grocery job two years ago.

Back in September when I substituted Johns Hopkins for the University of Texas, I did not know state tuition at UT was dramatically lower than private college tuition. I admit this level of naivete is tough to believe, but who was going to tell me? My non-existent Padre? Yeah, right. Or Mariachi Madre? I was so angry at my mother for "Little Mexico" that we weren't speaking. Adding to my problems, I was what you would call a loner. An only child stuck with an erratic mother, keeping to myself had become second nature long ago. Due to my limited social skills and tendency towards introversion, friends were few and far between. Although I was pretty good at book learning, things other people took for granted like knowledge about college tuition and how to find a girlfriend fell by the wayside. Due to my ignorance, as of January 1968, I was stuck with only two options, the prohibitively expensive Georgetown and Johns Hopkins. Ignoring Hopkins, I focused on Georgetown. Including room and board, it would cost between $20,000-$24,000 to attend Georgetown over a four year period. This was such a staggering amount, I worried day and night whether my father would come through for me as promised.

As it turned out, I did have one friend at St. John's. David and I liked to play chess at lunch. One day I got into a serious discussion with David about college finance. I stopped breathing when David told me his brother went to the University of Texas where tuition was $1,000 per year. I gasped. $1,000 per year? Georgetown was $5,000 a year!!

Unbelievable. I was so upset I nearly had a heart attack. Why didn't anyone tell me this back in September? Considering how worried I was, this bad news was more than I could handle. If I had applied to the University of Texas as my backup option, I had enough grocery store money to pay for the first year at UT out of my own pocket. Even better, if I won the Jones Scholarship and got a part-time job, I had enough money to attend UT for four years without depending on my father. Only one problem. It was too late to apply now.

Unless I could find a way to pay for Georgetown, I would be forced to miss an entire year of college. Given how badly I wanted to escape Little Mexico, this thought left me devastated. Right now I was very angry at Mr. Salls. Why didn't Mr. Salls tell me how inexpensive tuition was at a state school when we met in September instead of wasting my time over this stupid Johns Hopkins school? My misery did not stop there. When I suggested I could probably get a scholarship to Georgetown, David threw me a wicked curve ball. To my alarm, David warned me not to get my hopes up. David informed me that scholarship money was based on need.

"Yeah, so what?" I said. "My father doesn't know I exist and my mother is dead broke. I definitely qualify."

"Rick, I hate to be the one to tell you, but your father makes too much money. His substantial salary will be a deal breaker."

The recent years had been good to my father. He was now one of the top electrical engineers in the country. For example, he designed electrical systems for giant cranes such as the one used by the Space Center at Cape Canaveral to launch rockets and space capsules.

"I don't understand, David. I don't live with my father."

"That is true, but he retained his parental rights, so Georgetown will expect him to be responsible. They will take one look at your father's salary and expect him to pay."

"What if he refuses to pay?"

"Why would he do that?"

"Lots of reasons. My stepmother would murder him if he spent one extra dime on me. As it stands, he sends my half-brother and half-sister to private schools that are just as expensive as St. John's and pays full tuition. He claims money is tight. That's his way of saying don't expect further generosity beyond the College Pledge savings. I assume I will get whatever is in the College Pledge and that's it. Furthermore, I can't imagine my father would cooperate in filling out financial aid forms. How do I explain to Georgetown that my father refuses to help?"

"I don't know, Rick. But I know Georgetown won't give you a scholarship if your father doesn't play ball with them. Why should they take your word for it? It sounds to me like you better hope your father was serious about that College Pledge."

february 1968, Age 18, 12th Grade

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

THE college pledge

Following my conversation with David concerning financial aid, over the next month I was filled with overwhelming anxiety over my father's promise to pay for college. Not a day passed without that awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that I might miss out on college next year unless Dad agreed to help.

One day in late February the school receptionist gave me a message to meet my father at the usual time and place tomorrow. I was on pins and needles as I drove my car to the coffee shop. Surely he was good for his word. Why else would he set up today's meeting? This was it. This was the moment I had spent the last six years waiting for. Today I would learn the truth about my father's College Pledge. I was skeptical and hopeful at the same time. Over the past nine years, Dad had disappeared from my life. Although his office was only a mile from my school, Dad preferred not to make time for the forgotten child. Dad's idea of fatherhood was "Don't call me, I'll call you." I had been told not to call unless it was an emergency. At best I saw him for lunch a couple times a year. I was no fool. I knew he didn't care. However, all would be forgiven if he would just come through for me today.

As I walked into the coffee shop, my heart was pounding. I prayed Dad had put that money into a savings account as promised. If so, the nightmare of how to pay my Georgetown tuition would be over and I could finally calm down. The phrase 'hoping against hope' was coined for this situation. Would the father I always hoped for show up today or would the father he had turned into appear instead? I expected the latter, but you never know, maybe the man would come through. I recalled his solemn promise from six years ago.

"Rick, I know how much St. John's means to you, but paying for college is so much more important. This money will be there for you when it is time."

Dad was waiting for me in the reception area at the coffee shop. He stood up and greeted me with the biggest smile on his face. He shook my hand and gave me a big hug. Hmm. When was the last time my father hugged me? This was a good sign. Maybe there was hope after all.

A waitress escorted us to a booth and we sat across from one another. As our eyes locked, I could barely breathe. Six years I had waited for this moment. The tension was unbearable. When I saw him start to fish around inside his coat, I froze. This was it.

Dad found what he was looking for. He placed four $100 bills on the table.

My eyes bulged. Staring in horror, did this mean what I thought it meant?

"Dad, what is this money for?"

My father beamed with pride.

"Look, Rick, it's Four Hundred Dollars!

This is the money I've been saving for your college tuition! I promised you long ago I would help. I told you I would help you pay for college and I meant what I said! This money will help you go to college!"

I was stunned. Staring at the money in disbelief, Dad's $400 would barely put a dent in Georgetown's $20,000 price tag. Oh my God, my worst nightmare had just come true. This was the father I had expected all along. I turned white as my chances of going to college next year seemed ever so remote. Even if I won the Jones Scholarship, the annual $1,000 stipend did not come close to make up the difference. Stunned by the realization I probably would not be going to college in the Fall, I could not breathe.

If my father saw how upset I was, he did not show it. In fact, my father was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I was bewildered. What in the hell is my father so damn happy about? There he was, sitting across the table beaming with triumph. Dad was so pumped over his good deed, he looked like he was ready to don an Indian war bonnet and dance in the aisle, war whoop and all. What is wrong with this man? The way he was grinning from ear to ear, you would think Dad had just won the goddamn Father of the Year award.

I shook my head in disbelief. What could this man be thinking? I knew my father was a born salesman, but even Dad had to know he was stretching things here. Oh lord, just look at him! My father was as proud of himself as he could possibly be thanks to his amazing 2% contribution to my college fund. I could not believe my father was doing a victory celebration over $400.

Just then I wondered if Dad was playing a joke on me. Maybe he was pulling my leg. Was he hiding more money in an attempt to build the suspense? If so, it was working. I was so tense I could hardly stand it. Suddenly hopeful, I peered at him for clues. But then I remembered this was not my father's way. Dad did not have a sense of humor. Sure enough, the moment he noticed my frown, he replaced his Happy Face with his Let's Get Down to Business Face. I had my answer. This was it. Sick beyond sick, I stared long and hard at my father. They say moments from your life pass through your mind in times of crisis. The image that came to me was the vision of my mother and father arguing over sending me to St. John's during their divorce process. I knew my father was totally against it. Hiding behind a doorway to listen in, I remembered what my father had said on the day I was accepted at St. John's.

"Jesus Christ, Mary, that psychiatrist is an idiot. What makes him think a boy who made D's on his report card can handle academics at the toughest school in the city?   Our son can barely hack it in public school, so why should I spend all this money when we both know he will be demolished at St. John's?"

My father had good reason to feel that way. After my lackluster performance in public school, Dad assumed competing head to head with the best and brightest would be too much for me. However, just the opposite had happened. As the psychiatrist had predicted, the academic challenge was exactly what I needed. Although I had to study my butt off to keep up, I thrived on the challenge of proving I could hang with all these smart kids. If ever there was money well spent, this was it.   What a remarkable difference St. John's had made!   St. John's had brought out the very best in me. From an underachieving child in public school, I had been encouraged to reach my potential. I would have never made it through the past nine years without the support I got from my gifted teachers. Indeed, my education was the one bright spot in an otherwise miserable childhood. From my point of view, St. John's had worked a small miracle.

One would think my father would be thrilled at how well things had turned out for his son and wish to honor his College Pledge promise. But apparently not. Not once in nine years had my father ever acknowledged the value of my school. Too dumbfounded to speak, I gazed in shock at the money laying there. I had planned on getting nasty with him if he disappointed me, but here at crunch time I was far too introverted to confront him. Even though I physically towered over my soft, pudgy father, psychologically I was a dwarf in his presence. I hated myself because I didn't have the guts to chew him out.  For six years, I had vowed to speak up if he stiffed me. So much for false bravado. Before I could summon the courage to protest, my father took advantage of my silence to pump another nail into my coffin.

"I'm sorry, son, but right now my money is tied up with sending Joy and Charlie to private school. Unless I get a raise and things dramatically improve in my finances, this $400 will be my only contribution towards your college education."

No surprise there. I was already so numb, this news didn't affect me all that much. I guess I had already anticipated he would say something like that. The disgust I felt was overpowering. In addition, I was paralyzed with disbelief. How was it possible to have the lowest expectation for my father yet have him out-perform the worst thing I could imagine? I am not sure why, but for some reason the $400 stung even more than no money at all. The thought that my father was proud over $400 infuriated me. Is that the best he could do after six years? Good grief, even my mother could do better than that and she was destitute. As the spirit drained out of me, I was disappointed beyond comprehension. I wanted to chew him out, but what good would it do?  Feeling my anger grow, I was fearful of losing control. Realizing I was about to lose my temper and start screaming at him, I could not sit here any longer. I reached over to pick up the $400. It made me sick to touch the money, but despite my wounded pride, I needed whatever I could get.

Unable to be civil any longer, I stood up and said, "Thanks, Dad, but I've got to go. I have a test to study for." I stormed out of the building and threw the money on the passenger seat in disgust. I seethed over this brutal insult as I drove away in my used VW Bug. Suddenly without warning, my anger vanished. It was replaced by grief. My father's broken promise was more than I could take. Beneath the anger and disappointment, I was very hurt. In that moment, any remaining illusion as to my father's concern for my welfare died.

The sad thing is that I half-expected something like this would happen. Some sort of eerie premonition had warned me about today. I didn't see this dread as psychic foretelling, but rather that my subconscious knew my father better than my conscious mind wanted to admit. Well, not any more.

The problem was that my father had his "Caring Act" down to a pat. I met with him for lunch three or four times a year over the past nine years. Dad was always friendly, always affable, always glad to see me. However, today's cheap trick had opened my eyes. It was all a disguise. Before he began designing electrical systems, Dad had been an excellent salesman. I suppose Dad's sales training paid off. When you only see your kid three times a year, Dad could fake sincerity to perfection.

My father had once loved me. I knew this for a fact. But ever since he met the mistress, his love had mysteriously evaporated. Did I do anything to deserve this? No. For the past nine years I had been unfailingly polite and respectful. Grateful for any attention he was willing to share, I never gave my father a bit of trouble. Now after six years of wondering, today's betrayal revealed for certain what kind of man my father was.

As I drove back to school, I could not stop glancing at the $400 on the passenger seat. Seeing those four bills stare back at me like a Betrayed Kingdom, I felt so worthless. Most fathers would be proud of a boy who got straight A's, bought a car with his own money, worked 20 hours a week after school and never got into trouble. Not my father. Six years ago my father stopped paying for St. John's because in his opinion it was a waste of good money. Now he claimed there was no money for me because his abundant salary was better spent sending Joy and Charlie to private school. Hey Dad, do you want to explain why private schools are okay for them, but for not me? Seriously, my father had to be the biggest hypocrite to ever walk the earth. This was the day my father broke my heart.

FEBRUARY 1968, Age 18, 12th Grade

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

EVERYONE BUT ME

Prior to my Senior year, St. John's had been my sanctuary. For the past eight and a half years, my school was the only thing I had going for me. In particular, I could point to several teachers who had gone out of their way to offer counsel and encouragement. However, when I returned to class after my father's betrayal, I began to hate my school with a passion. It was a classic case of misplaced anger.

The moment I walked into German class, the phrase 'everyone but me' starting playing in my brain on endless loop. By reneging on his College Pledge, my father had left me with no way to pay for Georgetown. Unless I caught some sort of break, next year every classmate BUT ME would attend college. The more I thought about it, the more upset I became. In the history of St. John's dating back to 1946, only four graduating Seniors had failed to go to college, all girls. Legend had it they were getting married, so why bother? Easy to adopt that attitude when you're rich, but what about me? As things stood, I stood to become Number Five, a dubious honor.

Taking a desk in the back of the room, I was so upset I was in tears. Mrs. Anderson asked us to translate a long paragraph of German into English. Since German was my best subject, as usual I finished first. However, this time it was for the wrong reason. My heart wasn't in it, so I gave a brief effort and quit. So what? Since I wasn't going to college next year, what was the point of trying?

I felt so utterly hopeless. With nothing to do, I surveyed my twelve classmates and wondered what college they would attend. I started with Katina Ballantyne. In my opinion, Katina had the best mother in the school. Over the past nine years, I had watched Mrs. Ballantyne mentor her seven children in the hallways many times. Like Katina, every one of them was a class leader. I was convinced the success of the fabled Ballantyne clan was directly related to their mother's brilliance.

I also watched Mrs. Ballantyne dominate the afternoon Mother's Guild conversations. The Mother's Guild was a group of SJS mothers who met several times a week to plan parties after home football games, proms, book fairs, fund raisers and social events. Conducting their affairs in plain sight in the Commons Room, Maria Ballantyne was invariably a fixture in the center. I considered her the most influential parent in the school.

My hero worship began in the 4th Grade, my first year at SJS. Following the divorce, I was incredibly insecure. My mother's nutso marriage to the abusive alcoholic caused me great anguish. So did her manic-depressive behavior. Seeing her racked with sobs, there were times I actually worried she might kill herself. Other times I feared she would end up in the loony bin and be unable to care for me. That was my biggest fear. Just the thought of being forced to live with the mistress would be enough to scare the wits out of any kid. Due to my increasing lack of confidence in my own mother, I wondered what other mothers were like. Enter Maria Ballantyne. I noticed her poise. I saw the respect given by her peers. I took note how her seven children gravitated to her. Since I was a near-orphan, how could I not be attracted to such a caring, energetic mother?

Given my troubled home, I had no reason to apologize for my admiration. I was a sad, unhappy 10-year old who meant no harm. Furthermore, due to my respect for her privacy, not once during my nine years at SJS did I approach Mrs. Ballantyne in any way. All I did was watch from afar. I would stand unnoticed in a corner and wonder what I could accomplish if I had someone like her for a mother. The thought of having a caring, effective mother to motivate and advise me was a tempting fantasy to be sure.

Every one of the seven Ballantyne children were a credit to their parents. They were smart, athletic, and outgoing. Greatly respected by everyone, they were named captains of their sports teams and voted as Prefects by the student body.

Katina was the perfect example. A cursory glance at the 1968 yearbook said it all. Katina was all-conference in field hockey and captain of the volleyball team. She played lead in The Music Man, she was a Prefect, she was in the choir, she was editor of the yearbook. I would venture to say Katina was the most respected young lady in our class. Katina was an honor student as well. Despite all this success, Katina remained level-headed and even-tempered. Extremely popular, I never once saw a streak of meanness or pettiness. There were no airs or snobbery emanating from this young lady. Furthermore Katina's brothers and sisters were the same way... talented, generous, humble, no hint of arrogance. I watched Katina for the same reason I watched her mother... I admired both of them.

Unfortunately, following my father's snub, I caught myself staring at Katina filled with bitterness for the first time. I did not want to dislike Katina; she was a sweetheart. But I could not help myself. Katina's father was a prominent doctor. He was the first person hired when famed cancer research center M.D. Anderson opened its doors. I resented Katina because she had come to school today secure in the knowledge her father's lucrative profession would send her to the college of her choice. The same was true for the other eleven students. My classmates did not give college finance a second thought. But what about me? My father's broken promise meant there was a good chance I would not be going to college next year. I was incensed over the injustice. Who at this school has worked harder than me? Who needs college more than me? The thought of being trapped at Little Mexico for another year was more than I could handle. Given the unfairness of it all, my father's snub sent me reeling. Everyone but me...

MARCH 1968, Age 18, 12th Grade

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

COLLAPSE OF MY BETTER JUDGMENT

In the words of Jim Morrison, "Women seem wicked when you're unwanted, Faces look ugly when you're alone."

Following my father's betrayal, my bitterness increased daily. I was tormented every waking moment with the thought that my classmates went to bed at night dreaming of fraternities and sororities while I would still be sacking groceries next school year. I hated myself, I hated my father, I hated my mother, I hated everyone. It was me against the world and the world was winning. I could not bear the thought that every student in my Senior class had parents willing to take care of their children's college education. My father's broken promise was bad enough, but the knowledge that I meant so little to him hurt even worse. Other than my friend David, I told no one what had happened. I brooded day and night over my miserable fate. They say Depression is caused by anger turned inward. That's probably true. Unable to express my rage towards my father, my mind became twisted badly out of shape.

The trigger for my terrible mistake came Sunday night two weeks after my father's bad news. I was upstairs studying for my Monday German test when I heard my dog Terry yelp in pain downstairs. I was instantly alarmed. Terry was getting older and was increasingly fragile. Terry's cry was quickly followed by loud wailing from the two-year old boy who lived with us.

I raced down the steps at the same time as the boy's father came tearing out of the kitchen. I did not see what happened, but my guess is the boy had pulled Terry's leg. No doubt Terry's cry of pain had scared the kid, causing him to holler in fear. Already upset that Terry had been hurt, I was incensed when the boy's father had the nerve to accuse my dog of biting the kid. Since he spoke in Spanish, I didn't understand a word he said. However I got the message. Now joined by the four other adult Mexicans, they all took the father's side and glared at me as if this crying baby boy was my fault. Considering the powder keg of anger inside me, I was ready to tear the father to pieces when Mariachi Madre appeared just in time to separate us.

Furious that Terry was being blamed, I raised my voice and told my mother, "Terry didn't bite that kid. There's not a mark or red spot on the boy. I say that little brat hurt Terry."

With the child screaming like a banshee and five angry Mexicans glaring at me with hostility, my mother barked, "Richard, for once can we please skip the argument? The kid will live. Take Terry upstairs and be done with it."

Given the language barrier and lack of a witness, what was the point of arguing? I decided to cooperate, but that didn't mean my anger was going to subside. Seething in my bedroom, I found myself unable to resume studying for the German test. I was so angry at my mother for this ridiculous Little Mexico situation, I was ready to burn the house down. Realizing it was futile to control my anger, I closed the German book and took Terry for a long walk instead. A very long walk. The thought that there was a strong chance I would still be living here next year was more than I could bear. When I returned, I was too depressed to study, so I went straight to bed.

Unprepared for my German test, I called in sick the next day. Call it a mental health day, something I badly needed. Mercifully, the house was quiet for a change. I opened my German book and began to study. Unfortunately, I was still upset about last night. That is when I hit a roadblock. 20% of the test required a type of memorization I resented. I had no trouble memorizing vocabulary, but I drew the line at memorizing the names of famous German authors plus their widely acclaimed books. Wolfgang Goethe, Hermann Hesse, Thomas Mann, etc. The irony is that I didn't have anything against learning about these people. Indeed I had enjoyed our class discussions about these men. This was like English class where we discussed philosophy and other interesting ideas. Friedrich Nietzsche was my favorite due to his deeply cynical views of life. However, in my opinion, this was not Language, this was Literature and I saw no need to be memorize it. That is what encyclopedias are for. If they wanted to test us, better to have us write an essay in German about one of the men. Bitter, I decided to cheat on this particular section, but take the rest of the test the correct way.

I readily admit I was not thinking straight. However that's what happens when you are mad at the world. My father's broken promise was just the tip of the iceberg. Right now the animosity I felt towards my mother over her ill-advised decision to turn the house into Little Mexico had robbed me of any remaining patience. I was worried about college, I wasn't sleeping well, I didn't have an appetite, my dog had just been hurt and Little Mexico was a constant source of irritation. It was impossible to study over the loud music and shouting voices. Furthermore, how did they treat my vulnerable dog when I wasn't home?

They say overwhelming frustration causes self-destructive behavior. No argument from me. When you can't hurt the person you are mad at, you hurt yourself instead. All that anger has to go somewhere. The stress I felt was so oppressive, I snapped. Since the world had been so unfair, the injustice of it all entitled me to do whatever I wanted. I decided I had every right to make a bold statement and cheat on the Literature section of my German test.

"I, Rick Archer, hereby declare I am entitled to skip memorizing stupid stuff I will never need later in life."

It did not matter that no one would hear my protest. I would do this for no other reason than to be perverse.

MARCH 1968, Age 18, 12th Grade

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

THE DECISION TO CHEAT

As expected, during German class on Tuesday Mrs. Anderson told me to meet her later this afternoonin in this classroom during my Study Hall period. I liked Mrs. Anderson. Always cheerful and very complimentary of my work, she was one of the many fine teachers who went out of their way to offer support. I knew Mrs. Anderson liked me. Not only that, I was one of her best students. For this reason she trusted me.

At lunch time, I decided to cover my bet. What if Mrs. Anderson changed her mind and asked me to take the test in Study Hall instead? I would not dream of cheating in Study Hall with all those prying eyes. My scheme depended on being totally alone in our German classroom. Just in case, I briefly studied the information anyway. In other words, I knew enough to get most of it right without cheating. As it turned out, I made 95 on the test. Had I not cheated, I would have made a 90. In other words, this elaborate farce was worth 5 points. But making a better grade was not the point. I was cheating as a form of protest, a chance to thumb my nose at a cruel world. Besides, there was no way on earth I would ever be caught, so who cares what I do.

When I got to the classroom around 2:30 pm, Mrs. Anderson was waiting. Handing the test to me, she said, "When you are done, just drop it off at the office." Then she left the room. Convinced she would not return, I decided to go through with my protest. As I took my test, I sat alone behind a windowless closed door. Our classroom was located upstairs in the most deserted corner of the school. Since there was no hallway, there was no passing traffic to worry about. Nor would anyone visit the room at such a late hour. Mrs. Anderson had indicated she wasn't coming back, so I had nothing to worry about. Besides, in the unlikely event someone came up the noisy wooden stairs, I was certain to hear them approach.

30 minutes passed without a sound as I took the test. I handled the vocabulary and translation segment without problem. Now that I had finished the Language part of the test, I turned my attention to the Literature section I objected to. Okay, this is it. First I answered the questions I knew the answer to. Then I pulled out my book and began to copy the five or six names I did not remember. It would take two minutes to finish.

20 seconds after I opened my book, a classmate named Bob Franklin threw open the door and walked in. Oh my God, what is he doing here!?! No warning, no knock, Bob just burst in. Had I heard Bob coming up the stairs or if he had knocked before entering, I could have closed my book ahead of time. No such luck. His sudden entry caught me red-handed. However, although my book was wide open, maybe he wouldn't notice. Praying he would assume I was doing homework, I did not touch my textbook.

Bob froze the moment he saw me. By his startled expression, I could tell Bob had no idea anyone was in the room. Embarrassed at interrupting me, Bob apologized.

"Rick, I am so sorry to barge in like this! I'm sorry I didn't knock. I didn't know you were in here."

"Uh, it's okay, Bob," I stammered. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in Study Hall with German homework, but I couldn't find my book. The last place I saw my book was in this room during German class earlier today."

I was sitting near the desk Bob was headed to. Sure enough, I saw his book nestled in the storage space below. As he approached, I had no choice but to discretely close my book. Dumb move. Noticing what I did, Bob made sure to pass right by me. When he saw the test on my desk, his expression changed in a flash. Based on his puzzled look, Bob was not sure what he had seen, but it didn't look right. Bob did not say another word. He grabbed his missing book and swiftly left the room. I sat there stunned. I did not know if Bob would report me, but I definitely did not like the look on his face.

Oh my God, what have I done? So much for the Faith and the Virtue, the school motto. My Virtue was in short supply today. Given that this was a serious violation of the SJS Honor Code, how would I ever forgive myself? And what price would I have to pay?

Deeply shaken, I finished the test, then sat there trying to make sense of what had just happened. I was beyond incredulous. There was not one, but two coincidences in play here. Both were off the charts. What were the odds that Bob would forget his book on the same day I would take my makeup test in this room? Remote. What were the odds he would walk in at the exact moment to catch me? Astronomical. Bob's split-second timing could not possibly have been more devastating. I assumed Bob had been doing homework in Study Hall. Unable to find his book, he checked out of Study Hall to retrieve it in our classroom. Catching me at the worst possible moment, I concluded my calamitous downfall was a near-impossible event given the laws of probability.

Oddly enough, I was more concerned over the Supernatural overtones of this event than I was regarding my certain punishment. To me, there seemed a distinct possibility that this was a clear-cut case of Divine Intervention. I strongly suspected God had intended to teach me a lesson.

Let's take a closer look at the circumstances. I had been completely alone in an upstairs room in the furthest, most distant corner of the school. There was at most a narrow two, maybe three minute window for someone to catch me. No one but Mrs. Anderson knew I was in there and she didn't care. Did Mrs. Anderson send Bob to check on me? No way. The look of surprise on Bob's face when he walked in was genuine. Furthermore, why would I even have been under suspicion? I was an Honor student and German was my best subject. I had never cheated before, so why would anyone go to special lengths to catch me now?

Besides, even if I was under suspicion, why would anyone recruit a student to do the dirty work? Why not just have a teacher walk in unannounced and survey the situation? Or better yet, insist I take the test in Study Hall. Furthermore, how would Bob know when to bust in? The door did not have a window and it was closed. There was no way to see through the second story room window without a ladder. The Eighth period was 45 minutes long. Should he come in at the 10 minute mark? Or the 20-minute mark? How would Bob know which of those 45 minutes to make his move? Furthermore, why didn't I hear Bob coming? How did he come up those rickety steps in total silence? Why would he tiptoe? I certainly had no trouble hearing his stomping footsteps when he left. The only thing that made any sense was that the Hidden Hand of God had arranged this.

Ultimately this event violated my sense of the Physical World so badly that I became deeply suspicious. Analyzing the details from every angle, I concluded this was either a freak coincidence or an extraordinary Supernatural Event. Which one was it?

I was not a religious person at this time in my life. I did not attend church and I was far too worried about my college problems to give God a second thought. However, after being caught red-handed in a near-impossible way, I began giving God a great deal of thought. Bob's magic appearance was not my first brush with Unreality. Without effort I could remember 20 prior experiences that defied explanation. The best example was a close call at a carnival when I was 5. My father and I were headed to a stock car race when a sudden urge to play a nearby arcade game stopped me in my tracks. I grabbed my father's hand and insisted he let me play. Unbeknownst to us, a driver had just lost control of his car. With the race track hidden behind a flimsy wooden fence, we had no idea a giant vehicle was hurtling towards us. Before my father could reply, the car burst through the fence at 100 mph, barely missing my father and me by inches. The driver hit a nearby telephone pole and was killed, but we were spared. My father, a very superstitious man, was convinced an angel had spoken to me to save our lives.

With the memory of that incident fresh in my mind, I wondered if Bob's sudden appearance was Supernatural in origin. If an angel could telepathically contact me at the race track, it stood to reason someone could telepathically contact Bob to organize my demise. Perhaps Bob had been guided to my room for the purpose of catching me cheating. Although this scenario was impossible to prove, the likelihood of this coincidence was so remote I wondered if God had intervened to teach me a lesson. (If so, it worked. I have kept my vow to never cheat again.)

There was something else that bothered me. Given that it was uncharacteristic for me to cheat, where did that crazy idea to cheat on this test come from in the first place? Let me say this another way. When a robber needs money, he thinks of stealing. He steals because he has a reason. I had no reason. I was only cheating because some weird thought had come into my mind. If God or some invisible being could put an idea in my mind to save my life at the race track, they could just as easily place a dumb suggestion to cheat, then send Bob over at the right time to catch me.

Everyone assumes that "Divine Intervention" is something wonderful. An angel whispers to Rick and his life is saved. However, maybe there is a flip side to this coin. Has anyone ever considered Divine Intervention can also be used to teach lessons in life? The Lord's Prayer asks God to lead us away from temptation. However, based on this cheating experience, I had a right to ask if sometimes God deliberately leads us astray for His own purpose.   It seemed to me I had just received proof that God intervenes in the affairs of man whenever He chooses to. In Hindsight, I can now say this bizarre incident marked the birth of my belief in Fate.

For those who are Non-believers, I admit there were valid psychological reasons to explain why I cheated. So why pretend God planted the suggestion in my mind?   If the skeptics prefer to dismiss this bizarre event as mere coincidence, that is their privilege. But one thing was clear. I had been out of my mind to take that risk. What did I stand to gain by cheating? I was gambling 5 points on a meaningless test versus nine years of stellar reputation as one of the smartest boys in my class. Self-destructive behavior is very difficult to understand. What I had done was so absurd, I asked myself over and over why would I lose my mind like that. All speculation aside, I am sorry to say I will never know the true origin of my foolish decision.

As I feared, Bob did turn me in. No surprise there. I deserved it. Moreover I would have done the same thing had the situation been reversed. But here's what makes this story even stranger. I was never punished. That in itself is crazy. Caught red-handed, there could be no doubt I was guilty. Well aware what I had done was wrong, I was ready to accept whatever punishment Mr. Salls saw fit to deliver. However, he chose to spare me. The following day Mr. Salls sent Dunham Jewett, Head Prefect, to track me down in the hallway.

"Rick, there was an odd incident yesterday that I have been asked to speak to you about. You were seen with an open book while taking a German test. I know how good you are at German. In fact, I consider you such a great student that I cannot imagine someone of your talent needing to cheat. Don't worry. You may consider the matter closed."

Dunham patted me lightly on my shoulder, then walked away without another word. Obviously he preferred not to discuss the matter further. It was over in 20 seconds. Paralyzed by shock, I fixated on the way Dunham had stressed the word 'Imagine'.   He made it sound like it was inconceivable to think I had cheated. That was a very curious conclusion considering Bob had gotten a good look at my test right next to an open book turned to the subject material. My mouth fell open at the sheer audacity of Dunham's approach. He did not accuse me of cheating. Nor did he ask me if I had cheated, a question that would have put me on the spot. Instead Dunham had complimented me! In his opinion, I was too smart to even bother considering the thought. I scratched my head in confusion.

What in the world is going on here?

THURSDAY, MARCH 14, 1968, Age 18, 12th Grade

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

the Jones scholarship outcome

Although I was relieved to escape punishment, that did not mean the guilt went away. My self-loathing was off the charts. No matter what I did, no matter where I turned, something always went wrong. At the moment, every important person considered me a loser.  I quarreled constantly with my mother. I argued with my boss at the grocery store. My father betrayed me. The worst was the shame I felt regarding Mr. Salls. Over the past three years, I had been one of the hardest-working students in his German class. I did this specifically because I wanted so much to earn his respect. Now in an act of blinding stupidity, I had lost that respect. Although my Headmaster had been lenient, surely I had offended him. Mr. Salls was known as a strict disciplinarian. Well aware of other students who had been suspended or expelled, I did not understand why he had spared me.  Nor could I forgive myself. The thought that I had let this esteemed man down was excruciating. I wanted desperately to knock on his office door, fall on my knees, and beg for his understanding. But I lacked that kind of courage. Deciding I had burned my bridges here at St. John's, my thoughts turned to college as the only way I could think of to restore my reputation. But considering I had no clue how to afford a $20,000 price tag, my college dream seemed hopeless.

Senior year had turned into High School Hell. I was unable to play sports due to my blind eye, forced to live in a madhouse, forced to work after school because my father was a jerk. The worst was my intense loneliness. Fearful to approach a pretty classmate due a face scarred by acne and bottom of the barrel social status, in four years I had yet to conduct a friendly conversation with a St. John's girl. I felt so insecure whenever I compared myself to these ultra-confident debutantes in the making. Seriously, the only thing I had going for me were my grades, but now I had tarnished those as well. As a result, I was going downhill fast. I was consumed with bitterness towards my classmates for their carefree approach to college. Everyone but me! Throughout high school, the only thing that kept me going was the thought of college. Why else would I study so hard while my affluent classmates partied? College was the only way I could escape this terrible loneliness that enveloped me day in, day out. College meant escape from my mother, escape from Little Mexico, escape from feelings of inferiority. Unless I could find some way to pay the exorbitant tuition at Georgetown, I was out of luck.

I have one striking memory from this time. I suffered from an extreme case of tunnel vision. For some reason, I felt like it was make it to Georgetown or die trying. Although I had every right to be disappointed, why was my desperation so intense? So what if I couldn't pay for Georgetown? All I had to do was sit out a year and reapply to the University of Texas for the following school year. I could easily pay for UT out of my own pocket. And if I waited, I could save more money working full-time at the grocery store for another year.   However, the thought of waiting out a year was unbearable. Determined to escape Little Mexico, I was psychologically incapable of seeing any sort of alternative. I deserved a scholarship, of that I was convinced. But how was I supposed to obtain one? My friend David had me convinced that Georgetown would not dream of giving me a scholarship unless my parents cooperated by filling out financial aid forms. Even in the remote case my father decided to cooperate, his hefty salary was a serious deal-breaker to any claim I made of destitution.  And given the bitterness I felt towards my mother, I did not want her help. Why would some anonymous financial aid person at Georgetown take the word of a teenager regarding his bizarre situation?

"Young man, why are you contacting me instead of your parents?"

"Um, Mr. Georgetown, sir, I am totally on my own. My mother disinherited me because I don't speak Spanish. As for my father, my stepmother made him forget about me long ago."

"Why won't your parents agree to help?"

"My mother is broke, so why bother to ask? My father makes more than enough money to send two children by a second marriage to private school. However, he claims he has no money left to help me. My father is a lost cause."

"I'm sorry, young man, but how am I supposed to know you are telling the truth? Money doesn't grow on trees. If you wish to be considered for scholarship, tell your parents to fill out the forms like everyone else."

Ask my parents for help? What parents? I occupied a bizarre life space. I occupied a room in my mother's flophouse, but otherwise operated totally independent of her authority. My father checked out the moment he handed me the $400. In Hindsight, the only adult I could have turned to was Mr. Salls. I imagine he could have told me what to do.   For that matter, he might have been willing to contact Georgetown himself. However, now that I had burned my bridges with the cheating incident, I did not dare go anywhere near Mr. Salls. Bottom Line, I was totally on my own. Which was a real problem because I was out of control. Nevertheless, I had to try.

Desperate to find a way to pay for Georgetown, I cooked up a grand scheme called "Foot in the Door". Here is how the plan worked. I had been accepted at Georgetown. Age 18, I assumed I could enroll without my mother's permission. There was no way on earth I could pay for an entire school year by myself. However, after careful calculation, I believed I had just enough money to pay for one semester. Tuition plus room and board was $6,000 a year. That was way beyond my reach. But one day it occurred to me that colleges allowed you to pay one semester at a time. If so, I had $2,000 in grocery savings, my father's $400, plus $1,000 per year Jones Scholarship. Even if the Jones Scholarship was broken in half ($500 per semester), I was close enough to enroll for one semester at Georgetown in the Fall of 1968.

Once I got my Foot in the Door, at some point I would make an appointment to speak to a Georgetown financial aid officer and beg for a scholarship. If the man said no, at least I tried. But I did not believe that would happen. My good grades plus a heartfelt face-to-face would surely convince someone to help. Even better, after winning the Jones Scholarship, I could use that accomplishment as evidence of both my worthiness and my need.

Since I saw this plan as my only way to escape my home situation, it was worth the gamble. If worse came to worst, I would drop out after one semester and ask Uncle Dick for a job at his computer company in Northern Virginia. In the meantime I would apply to UT for the following school year. Anything was better than sticking around at Little Mexico.

Looking back, this was actually a fairly good plan. However, first I had to win the Jones Scholarship. Not a problem. I was a shoo-in. Or so I assumed. Unfortunately I was plagued with the same premonition of doom that had haunted me prior to my father's $400 rebuke. As the clock ticked down, the fact that no one at my school had said a word to me felt like a very bad omen.

Sure enough, I was right. On a Thursday morning in mid-March, my Foot in the Door plan went up in smoke. I gasped as the Houston Post announced Katina Ballantyne had won the St. John's award for the class of 1968. Stunned, this terrible news felt like a knife through the heart.

There goes my last chance to go to Georgetown. Considering I already thought the world was against me, my sense of injustice was off the charts at this latest reversal. Considering Katina came from a wealthy family, this made no sense. What on earth went wrong? Grasping for any kind of reason to explain why I had lost, I turned white when a horrible thought came to mind. What if Mr. Salls had done this to punish me for the cheating episode? Why bother with a nasty cheating scandal? Bad for the school's reputation. Easier to punish the cheater by denying him a scholarship that was rightfully his and put Katina's pretty face on the next SJS Alumni magazine.

Oh my God, what have I done to myself? My last chance to pay for Georgetown next year was gone and it was my own fault. All that work down the drain. Consumed with self-hatred, I fell to pieces. Little Mexico, my father, my mother, the cheating mistake, plus the stupidity of not applying to a college I could afford. As if this was not bad enough, I had kicked away a shoo-in scholarship. It was all too much to bear. I spiraled into the worst depression of my life as thoughts of suicide drifted in and out of my mind.

In Hindsight, what scares me is how utterly mixed up I was. People wonder at the high rate of suicide in high school and college. I hate to say it, but it makes perfect sense to me. Young people lack perspective, especially those like me with no one to turn to. They don't seem to realize bad fortune often turns around if one can be patient and keep working through hard times. I was a tall, strapping boy who possessed self-discipline and a powerful work ethic. I was about to graduate near the top of my class at the toughest school in Houston. Given these blessings, it did not make a bit of sense that I was thinking of ending my life. Indeed, I had a bright future ahead if I could just weather the storm. Instead I was my own worst enemy. Filled with hate towards myself, I could barely withstand the pressure of guilt and constant self-criticism. Indeed, my mood was precarious. Teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown, I was badly out of control. One more mistake on my part and it was time to locate the nearest bridge.

Exhausted and barely able to function, over the following week I somehow forced myself to carry on. Every day was a blur. I spoke to no one unless I had to. Oddly enough, the one thing that kept me going was my outrage towards Maria Ballantyne, Katina's mother. I was beyond livid. Losing the Jones Scholarship was not Katina's fault. Nor was it Mr. Salls' fault. I had brought this on myself. But I was also certain Mrs. Ballantyne's considerable influence had something to do with her daughter's good fortune. I had studied Mrs. Ballantyne like a hawk for nine years. Not a week went by when I did not see Mrs. Ballantyne speak with Mr. Salls in the Commons Room or walk with him side by side in the hallway. It was obvious the two of them were buddies. Which made perfect sense. It wasn't just the immense tuition she paid to send seven children to SJS. Credit Maria Ballantyne for raising seven of the finest students in the school. If Mr. Salls was going to do someone a favor, who better than Mrs. Ballantyne? The rich get richer while the poor kid gets the shaft.

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 20, 1968, Age 18, 12th Grade

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

THE PARKING LOT CONVERSATION

It was Wednesday, March 20. Six days had passed since the newspaper announced Katina's triumph. I was a beaten kid. All fight was gone. There was nothing left I could do to rescue my dream of college for this coming fall, no more Foot in the Door fantasies. Meanwhile the thought of spending another year at Little Mexico was unbearable. I suppose I could move out, but how would that help me save money on a grocery store salary?

My father's disdain was bad enough, but the thought of letting Mr. Salls down was even worse. Mr. Salls knew me better than my own father. Unlike my father, Mr. Salls was in a position to judge my character. The verdict was in and he had found I lacked integrity. By denying me that scholarship, my status as a loser had just been affirmed by the most important man in the school.

As I drove to my grocery job that afternoon, the combined shame of being caught cheating plus kicking away a sure-thing scholarship was intolerable. I was enveloped in depression tighter than a straight-jacket. How I made it through each day of school I will never know. Unable to concentrate, I could not find a way to get my conscience to ease up. Terrified by random thoughts of suicide, not a moment passed without mind-numbing criticism on how I had made a mess of my life. Gee whiz, I had worked like a dog at the grocery store for three years to save money. I had endured constant loneliness to study long hours in hopes of a scholarship. Given all the sacrifices I had made in search of my dream, why would I jeopardize all that hard work by cheating? It staggered me to realize in one bizarre moment I had thrown it all away in an act of colossal bad judgment.

Another year stuck at Little Mexico was exactly what I deserved for being an idiot. It was my own fault for being so stupid! Speaking of Little Mexico, maybe it was time to forget about German and learn something useful for a change. How about a Spanish course at the local community college? Then I could stick up for Terry next time that little brat kicked my dog.

Moments after starting my afternoon shift at the grocery store, I stopped cold in my tracks. None other than Maria Ballantyne had just walked in out of the blue. I was incredulous. In three years, I had never seen her in here. Given that she been prominent in my thoughts over the Jones Scholarship disappointment, her sudden and quite unexpected appearance was beyond weird.

For a moment I thought she had come to see me. But when she walked right past me with no sign of recognition, I realized my mistake. With seven mouths to feed, more likely Mrs. Ballantyne had noticed my store on her way home. Although my store was nowhere near her house, I suppose it was as good as any in a pinch. There was no way Mrs. Ballantyne could have known she was my secret nominee for best mother in the school. She did not know me from Adam. We had never spoken; not once in nine years had I caught her eye. I desperately wanted her to explain how a rich girl like Katina had won the scholarship. However, I was far too introverted to confront her. I did not even have the guts to introduce myself. The best I could do was sack her groceries and offer to take her two grocery carts outside.

As we walked to her car, I had mixed feelings. Chalking up the achievements of her talented children to her skill as a parent, I had long admired Mrs. Ballantyne. If you had asked me the week BEFORE she helped Katina steal my scholarship, I would have been full of praise. If you had asked me the week AFTER, I hated her guts. However I had changed my mind in the last couple days. I decided Mrs. Ballantyne had every right to help Katina. Even the fact that she had probably persuaded Mrs. Salls to give the scholarship to her daughter did not change my opinion. In fact, it had the odd effect of improving my respect. That is what a good mother is supposed to do, look out for her children. I just wished I had a mother capable of similar feats.

My visit to her car was uneventful. Mrs. Ballantyne stared into space as I put the groceries in her trunk. When I finished, she wordlessly handed me two quarters, smiled briefly, then turned to go. I grabbed the grocery carts and glumly headed back to the store.

Just then I heard her voice behind me. "Young man, could I speak to you for a moment?"

When I turned around to look, she said, "Do you by some chance go to St. John's?"

As it turned out, Mrs. Ballantyne had noticed I appeared to be wearing the St. John's uniform. Although she did not consciously recognize me, something told her she knew me from somewhere. When I answered yes, that broke the ice. Now Mrs. Ballantyne was curious. By definition, St. John's students were highly privileged. So why was this boy working a menial $1.25 an hour job? After I answered a series of probing questions, she reached several conclusions. One, I was poor. Two, I was deeply disturbed. Three, I reminded her of her own difficult childhood. Yes, believe or not, I was about to discover this high and mighty woman had experienced a difficult childhood remarkably similar to my own.

To my astonishment, Mrs. Ballantyne proceeded to tell me the story of how she had faced great hardship as a young girl.

"This might come as a surprise to you, but things were very tough for me back when I was growing up. Like you, I had a similar experience of growing up around wealth even though my own family was not particularly well off."

As I listened to her tale, I was haunted by an air of unreality. I had no idea why the most prestigious woman I knew would take interest in a nobody kid like myself, a stranger no less. Why would she tell her life story to a complete stranger? Why should she care?

"Empathy" is the ability to sense other people's emotions, coupled with the ability to imagine what they might be thinking or feeling. In Hindsight, I believe Mrs. Ballantyne was startled to discover a young man from St. John's whose childhood was just as difficult as her own had been. Given where she and I started in life, realistically neither of us belonged at St. John's. The odds that either one of us would end up at St. John's was a long-shot at best. But for both of us to be at St. John's? Don't be ridiculous. Only in a coincidence-filled Charles Dickens novel do crazy things like this happen.  Although I had no clue why she had opened up to me, I thanked my lucky stars that she had taken an interest. Based on her past, she was the best person at my school capable of understanding what I was going through. In addition, her skill as a parent allowed her to realize that I was in serious trouble. Sympathetic to my plight, I believe Mrs. Ballantyne could sense the jeopardy I was in. This explains why she made a snap decision to befriend me.

As I listened wide-eyed to the sad story of her childhood, I pinched myself repeatedly. The utter improbability of our chance meeting was very unsettling. If we had met on premises at St. John's, our random encounter would have made sense. However, despite passing each other in the SJS hallways a thousand times over nine years, we had failed to connect a single time. Furthermore, the near-impossible way I had been caught cheating predisposed me to interpret what was happening now as pure Twilight Zone. Given my superstitious streak, the fact that this meeting was taking place in such an unlikely location bothered me greatly. Mrs. Ballantyne had no business being here.  My store was located in a middle class neighborhood at least three miles from her home in posh River Oaks. With three grocery stores within walking distance of her home, why stop here? Why not keep driving and stop at her usual store? Equally strange was our mutual presence at St. John's. I already knew my participation at St. John's was a total fluke. However I never expected the most important woman at my school would admit to a complete stranger that her presence at SJS was also a fluke. What strange quirk of Fate had placed us at St. John's? And what quirk of Fate had brought us together in this parking lot at such a critical time in my life? Nothing about this conversation made a bit of sense. Unable to answer these questions to my satisfaction, I listened with a sense of awe.

Mrs. Ballantyne had grown up in nearby Galveston, Texas. Her mother was wonderful, but the lady had tragically died of a sudden stroke when Maria was 11. Her father went off the deep end. Breaking his leg in a car accident shortly after his wife's death, he was unwilling to care for his four children. He told his two older sons to go find jobs in Houston. He farmed his son George, 13, to his brother on the other side of Galveston island. He bullied his sister-in-law to take Maria. Then he disappeared from sight to feel sorry for himself and do some drinking while his leg healed. When Maria's father finally resurfaced, he was too busy gambling and chasing women to come see his young daughter. Maria was stunned by his abandonment. In a matter of months, she had lost her mother, her father, her older brothers and George, her only friend. Maria's Aunt Virginia had problems of her own. Fighting to keep her restaurant afloat during the Depression, the woman was overwhelmed. She had two children and was pregnant with another. As a result, Maria was ignored. Well aware she was unwanted where she lived and separated from George, her only source of support, the ensuing year was the toughest of Maria's life. Feeling like an orphan, she suffered from abandonment, intense loneliness, plus a sense of being forced to raise herself [sound familiar?]

Shocked by the similarity of her story to my own, I could not help but wonder how Mrs. Ballantyne had escaped poverty to be transported to the idyllic Xanadu of her future life. I understood the rags, but how did she attain the riches? Almost as if she could read my mind, Mrs. Ballantyne shared a deep secret. Without being asked, Mrs. Ballantyne whispered that a Galveston mobster had unexpectedly offered to pay her way to college. She add that this ticket out of the poverty trap was the luckiest break of her life. I hoped she would tell me more, but that is where she ended her tale. Now she looked me square in the eye to get my attention.

"Rick, as you have surely guessed, I have told you my story for a reason. Your unusual background reminds me very much of my own childhood. I had it tough. If it weren't for all sorts of lucky breaks, I might be waiting tables in a Greek restaurant or taking dictation today.  You sack groceries? Well, guess what. When I was a kid, I was no stranger to washing dishes. But I made it out of there. If I can overcome adversity, you can too. In fact, it looks to me like you are well on your way.   I have been around St. John's a long time and I have never heard of a student working a full-time job after school. Never. St. John's students have every privilege imaginable, so I never expected to find a young man like you earning money for college. You are definitely one of a kind. Things are tough for you now, but I strongly encourage you to hang in there. You have too much going for you to stop now."

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 20, 1968, Age 18, 12th Grade

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

THE forbidden subject

I nodded when Mrs. Ballantyne finished. What she said made sense. I did not want her to go. Just the fact that she was giving me so much attention had bolstered my spirits considerably. I expected her to leave at this point, but to my surprise she lingered. I wanted to say something in response to her story, but suddenly found myself tongue-tied. Holding back a waterfall of tears, I was having fits keeping my composure. Although her encouragement was appreciated, it had unleashed a wave of painful emotions regarding the loss of the Jones Scholarship and my dream of Georgetown. All this frustration I had been trying to hold back was demanding release. As if that was not enough to cope with, my brain was going crazy trying to process my growing sense of Unreality. Coming so close on the heels of Bob Franklin catching me cheating under extraordinary circumstances, this highly unlikely parking lot conversation felt very eerie. Something weird was going on, I was sure of it. However, as the pain grew intense, it drowned out the wild ideas of Divine Intervention racing through my mind. I was just about to burst into embarrassing gut-wrenching sobs when the strangest thing happened.

"Rick, did you know that my daughter Katina recently won the Jesse Jones Scholarship?"

At the mere mention of the Jones Scholarship, a lightning bolt of shock flashed through me. Did Mrs. Ballantyne really say that?!?

The jolt was so intense my flood of self-pity vanished on the spot. It was replaced by burning anger as my eyes grew wide with disbelief. It was like she could read my mind. Did Mrs. Ballantyne know this was the incident that had triggered my crisis? Unlikely. But even if she did guess, where did she get the nerve to broach the Forbidden Subject? As I bristled with rage, I could not believe Mrs. Ballantyne had the guts to bring this sensitive issue out in the open. Good grief, I was an unstable teenager with a razor's-edge temper. I towered over the lady by ten inches and outweighed her by a hundred pounds. Nevertheless, despite my size and hair-trigger emotions, Mrs. Ballantyne never blinked. Stunned by her boldness, I don't know what came over me, but just as quickly as my rage had appeared, it disappeared. My anger was replaced by the strangest feeling that this conversation could not be happening!! Convinced this had to be a dream, immediately the eerie Twilight Zone music began playing in my mind. If this is a dream, when do I start flying?

Mrs. Ballantyne had just escalated the overall improbability of this unexpected conversation into some sort of parallel universe. Where did she find the audacity to speak so openly? My mother and father had never talked directly about problems in this manner. No one... repeat no one... in my world had the guts to openly discuss a subject as controversial as this. No one, that is, except Mrs. Ballantyne. She was apparently fearless. Even if it was true she had manipulated Mr. Salls in some way to obtain that scholarship for her daughter, I didn't care anymore. Truth be told, I was too stunned by the 'Totality' of this woman to be angry anymore.

I had never met anyone like Mrs. Ballantyne in my life. Seriously, I did not know what to make of her. This conversation had become weirder than UFOs, reincarnation and alien abduction combined. Shocked that Mrs. Ballantyne had brought up the Forbidden Subject at the exact moment I had been thinking about it, I stared at her with a mixture of confusion and awe. Was Mrs. Ballantyne from another planet?? She reminded me of an alien who comes to earth to tell everyone to calm down and stop bickering.

Convinced this perceptive lady had powers I had no explanation for, I gave up trying to figure out what was going on. Instead I simply surrendered and began looking around for a white flag to wave. Mrs. Ballantyne was by far the most impressive human being I had ever met. Or maybe she was immortal. I had the exact same feeling one might have if Zeus or Hera strolled down from Olympus for a pleasant afternoon chat.

Noting I was too astonished to respond, Mrs. Ballantyne took the reins. She launched into a detailed explanation of how Katina won the scholarship.

"Rick, people at St. John's are completely fooled by my family. My children and I laugh about it all the time. So many people think we are rich that it has become kind of a joke to us. Big house, fancy neighborhood, huge oak trees, seven children at an expensive school. They assume my husband Jay must be rich as King Midas. Nothing could be further from the truth. Jay makes a good income, but his pay is fixed because he works for the University of Texas.

Jay treats cancer at MD Anderson and some research as well. His salary is much lower than surgeons in private practice. I suppose he could ask for more, but he had refuses to engage in self promotion. Unwilling to renegotiate his salary, his income is nowhere near as lucrative as people think. In many ways, this situation works against him because it caps his earnings considerably. Opposed to the kind of money physicians can make in private practice, Jay has no obvious way to expand his cash flow. However, he loves his job so much he would not dream of leaving.

Despite my family's seeming affluence and nice home, my husband's salary can only stretch so far. In other words, there are degrees of rich. The Ballantyne finances are strictly budgeted. Money is very tight at home. If it wasn't for my brother George, I don't how we would make ends meet."

Seeing me stare with incredulity, Mrs. Ballantyne laughed in amusement, then continued.

"I have seen that look before and I know what you are thinking. But I'm serious. You may not believe this, but even my children think we are kind of poor. When my oldest son Michael first went to St. John's, he came home convinced he was the poorest kid at school. He and I argued all the time, but Michael kept saying right up till the day he graduated that he was the poorest kid at St. John's. All his brothers and sisters took his side. Clearly we are not poor. However, since everything is relative, it is true we are out of our league compared to the wealth of other families at St. John's."

Although I was still too flustered to speak, my mind worked. This was the most fascinating information I had ever heard. It also made sense. I had never considered that even rich people have to struggle to make ends meet. Seeing the incredulous look on my face, Mrs. Ballantyne decided to drop a bombshell.

"People see our beautiful house in River Oaks and jump to conclusions. They have no idea this house was a "welcome-back-to Houston" gift from my brothers George and Johnny when Jay got his job. Furthermore, this might come as a surprise, but every child in my family is receiving financial aid. Did you know Katina is on scholarship at St. John's just like you?"

What?!? Katina is on scholarship? I was dumbfounded.

"Someday when you become a father and raise children, you will begin to understand that is very expensive to give a child a good education. But you will also remember your St. John's education and realize that giving a good education to your child is the most important gift of all besides love."

Mrs. Ballantyne paused to let her words sink in, then continued.

"Yes, my husband is a very successful doctor with an international reputation, but if people only knew! Based on my husband's fixed salary, it would be impossible to simultaneously send SEVEN children to an expensive private school like St. John's without financial help. Every one of my children has a partial scholarship."

I could not help but think of my father. When we had met for lunch back in December, he had complained how hard it was to pay full price to send my half-sister and half-brother to private school. Given that my father lived in a very expensive neighborhood, I had assumed he was sandbagging with plenty of money to spare. Now I realized he was probably caught in the same money crunch as the Ballantyne family. Still, that was no excuse for breaking his promise to pay for my college education. He had six years to save money and the best he do was $400? Pathetic. I immediately felt my blood boiling again. No doubt my father was thrilled to get rid of me. Now he could get the former mistress off his back. I could read his mind. "I am so glad I don't have to pay child support anymore. Let's give the kid a few hundred bucks for college and maybe my wife will finally shut up."

I was about to let my bitterness take over again, but just then Mrs. Ballantyne resumed her explanation.

"College is far more expensive than St. John's. My son Michael is already in college at Stanford. You have no idea how expensive Stanford is. Thank goodness Michael is brilliant. Yes, he is on scholarship. So is Dana at Vanderbilt. Now Katina is ready for college as well. After that it will be Marina, then Christie, then George, then Lisa. I lose sleep wondering how we will afford their education. Paying for college can be very complicated!"

Mrs. Ballantyne was so animated, I could tell she had considerable energy on the subject of college finance. If I did not know better, the subject of financial aid was just as stressful for her as it was for me. She was getting a burden off her chest at the same time she was enlightening me. It had to be exorbitant to give seven children a quality education at the same time.

"What do you mean by 'complicated', Mrs. Ballantyne?"

"Katina will need help with her tuition next year at Vanderbilt in much the same way you will need help going to Georgetown. The problem is that college administrators look at our affluent River Oaks zip code and my husband's prestigious position at MD Anderson and jump to the same conclusion as everyone else... 'The Ballantynes must be rich!'"

"I have always assumed you were rich, so it is likely the people at Katina's college will do as well."

"You are right, but that makes me so mad! If I hear one more college administrator throw how rich we are in my face again, I will scream. I argue with them all the time. For some reason, all these men can do is see one child at a time, the one who is applying to their school. They tell me my husband makes far too much money to justify a scholarship for Katina. Why can't they see how hard is to pay for seven children at once? Believe it or not, Jay's salary will make it impossible for Katina to get a full scholarship. Thank goodness she won the Jones Scholarship. It is a huge blessing. I have never felt so relieved in my life."

My friend David had been right... a parent's salary affects a student's scholarship status. That meant Katina was in a similar fix as me. Her father's paycheck undermined her chances of getting a scholarship. Thank goodness Mrs. Ballantyne had cleared this up. I would have never guessed the truth in a thousand years. The one thing Mrs. Ballantyne did not explain was her personal role in Katina's award, but it did not matter. Although I remained convinced that her political clout had something to do with Katina winning that scholarship, my sense of fairness was restored. As long as Katina also needed the money, I could not think of a more worthy candidate.

At this point, my thoughts shifted from Katina to Mrs. Ballantyne. It was amazing to see how skillfully this lady dealt with the sensitive topic of why Katina won the scholarship instead of me. Her candor stood in stark contrast to my father who refused to deal with the same subject openly. With three children and barely enough money to pay for two private schools, Dad made me odd man out. He handed me $400 and pretended he had kept his word. Did he bother to explain why he had short-changed me? No. He avoided the subject. Truth be told, I would not have been in this crisis if he had explained his financial difficulties openly. Instead he blind-sided me with the $400 betrayal AFTER it was too late to apply for a less expensive school like UT. His cowardice paled in comparison to Mrs. Ballantyne. Ignoring the chance that I might lose my temper, she raised the subject of financial aid specifically because her intuition guessed I was desperate for an explanation. For the millionth time, I could not help but note how fortunate Katina was to have a mother like her.

My burden was gone. All this time I was under the impression that rich and greedy Mrs. Ballantyne wanted Katina to have the prestige. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Feeling sheepish, I didn't care anymore that I had lost the scholarship. As my mind adjusted to the new facts, I accepted that Katina was equally deserving. If someone else had to win, I was glad it was Katina. I had always liked her. Katina was the kind of person you could build a world around... decent, responsible, talented. Just like her mother. For the first time in ages, I began to smile. Not only that, I had magically regained my confidence. My eyes were completely dry and I stood up straight. I was relieved to find my ability to speak had returned as well.

"You know what, Mrs. Ballantyne, I am glad Katina won that scholarship. I wish I had won it, but it's okay. I really appreciate that you took the time to help me understand."

I smiled as I said this. And I meant it too. I spoke from my heart. Now that Mrs. Ballantyne had healed me with her soft touch, I was okay. I wasn't mad any more. The world wasn't such a bad place after all. Forget the drama, it was time to move on. Even if Spanish class at a community college was my next step, so what. I had my whole life ahead of me. One little detour would not keep me down.

Mrs. Ballantyne was positively beaming. The sincerity of my words about Katina meant a lot to her, I was sure of it. Bless her heart, she gave me the oddest smile. Perhaps Mrs. Ballantyne had felt a little guilty. Until she met me, she had no idea there was some other kid at St. John's who was just as desperate to win that award as Katina. I imagine she sensed how difficult it must have been for me to lose that scholarship, especially since I had never received any sort of explanation for being bypassed. Mrs. Ballantyne was special. I felt so lucky to meet her, I could scarcely believe this had happened.

"Rick, I know you must be frantic about money for college, but I wouldn't worry too much. With your grades, I imagine whichever school you choose will seriously consider you for a scholarship. I think you have a great chance."

My eyes grew wide. Did she know something? Feeling my pulse race, I asked, "What do you mean, Mrs. Ballantyne?"

Mrs. Ballantyne was more than happy to elaborate.

"After taking care of Michael, Dana and Katina, I know quite a bit about how college scholarship money works. In my experience, the combination of great grades and great need will guarantee you scholarship money at any well-endowed school in America. In addition, your St. John's pedigree is a powerful asset. Any college would want a student like you. I imagine college loans and work-study jobs will bridge any further gap. I say relax. You need not worry. I would bet the farm that whatever school you apply to will take care of you. Stop worrying about money. It will take care of itself."

I stared at her with my mouth hanging open. I wasn't convinced. Mrs. Ballantyne probably didn't know my father's salary would be a serious handicap to getting a scholarship. Nor did she know about the cheating incident. I felt encouraged nonetheless. Maybe she knew something she was not at liberty to share. Had Mr. Salls told her something? One could only hope. However I dismissed the thought as wishful thinking. Mr. Salls hated me (or so I thought at the time). More likely she was just trying to cheer me up. Now that Mrs. Ballantyne had finished explaining how college scholarships were handled, her work was done. She took my right hand in her hands and squeezed it affectionately. We shared a big smile, then it was time to go. To be polite, I opened the car door for her.

Mrs. Ballantyne rolled down the window. "Don't worry about the money. I promise things will work out for you."

She waved goodbye and off she went. I was unable to move after she left. I just stood there in the parking lot trying to make sense of it all. Our conversation had lasted 45 minutes. Amazingly, no one from the grocery store had come looking for me. That in itself was kind of odd. I was incredulous at what Mrs. Ballantyne's pep talk had accomplished. The weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. The grudge over the Jones Scholarship was gone. The bitter envy towards my privileged classmates had dissipated. I was amazed to discover my vast cesspool of self-hate had magically drained. Even my fears about college tuition were gone. So I would have to sit out a year. Big deal. I could scarcely believe how relieved I felt. I had a sense of optimism for the first time in ages. In the process, my darkness had been replaced by pure admiration for my hero. Now for the first time I understood why I had watched her all these years. I had been drawn to Mrs. Ballantyne because instinct told me she was a remarkable woman. I thanked my lucky stars for the good fortune to meet this dynamic lady today. She had accomplished a miracle.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 10, 1968, Age 18, 12th Grade

SENIOR YEAR CRISIS

QUITE A SURPRISE

I no longer worried about college in the days that followed my meeting with Mrs. Ballantyne. Relieved of my anger towards the world, the thought of living at Little Mexico for another year no longer bothered me. I guess I was used to it by now. I figured I would spend next year sacking groceries, learn some Spanish, reapply to the University of Texas, maybe even ask some of the girls I met at the grocery store for a date. Best of all, I would not have to say goodbye to Terry when I left for college, a move I had been dreading. The chance to spend another year with my beloved dog was special.

Three weeks after the Parking Lot Conversation, I received a message that Mr. Salls wanted to see me in his office immediately. Oh no, what was this about? Not the cheating scandal, please. I checked out of Study Hall to see what he wanted.

As I entered Mr. Salls' office, I was very tense. During the 9th, 10th, and 11th grades, he had been a daily fixture as my German teacher. However, he disappeared after assuming the role of Headmaster. This visit marked only the second time I had spoken to him all year. Seeing no one else in his office, I breathed a sigh of relief. No disciplinary firing squad was present to deal with the cheating episode. However, Mr. Salls was very formal. No eye contact, no smile, no cordial greeting in German today. In fact, he didn't even bother to look up. Continuing to read something on his desk, he whispered, "Mr. Archer, please sit down. I will be with you in a moment."

What was this about? There was no way I was able to relax, so I sat poised at the edge of my chair. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but most of all I fought the wild urge to fall to my knees and beg forgiveness. I wanted to apologize for the cheating incident in the worst way. Plagued by guilt, I still felt terrible for losing this man's respect.

Unfortunately, never in a million years did I have the guts to bring up the painful cheating subject on my own. Mrs. Ballantyne might have the courage to discuss Forbidden Subjects, but not me. The shame was too great. To begin with, I would die if Mr. Salls asked me to tell him the truth. In fact, that's probably what this was all about. But then I dismissed the thought. If Mr. Salls wanted the answer, he would have asked six weeks ago. Worried sick, I sat there in silence awaiting my unknown fate.

Finally Mr. Salls finished whatever he was doing and looked up. Mr. Salls had his stern mask on today. No smile, no pleasantries. He was all business, curt and frowning. No 'how are you?', no warmth, just his dark, inscrutable face and penetrating eyes. Given how brusque his manner was, I believed Mr. Salls was still angry at me for cheating. With a sinking heart, I guess I would be angry too if I was in his place.

Mr. Salls said, "I understand you have been accepted at Johns Hopkins University. Is this correct?"

Without changing expression, I smiled to myself. Aha! So this was not about the cheating incident after all. What a relief. It also crossed my mind that this was an odd way to begin a conversation. I assumed that news of my Hopkins acceptance as well as Georgetown came to him automatically, but maybe not. I suddenly became very curious.

"Yes, sir. I have been accepted at Johns Hopkins."

Mr. Salls continued. "Very good. Are you still interested in this school? Because if you are, I would give this school my highest recommendation. Hopkins is a fine institution."

I groaned. Still interested? Give me a break. I was never interested! However, I was careful not to say that out loud. There was no point in being rude, but I am sure it was written on my face. My heart was set on Georgetown University. This school was situated a stone's throw across the Potomac River from Aunt Lynn and Uncle Dick. They were the closest thing to a real mother and father I had ever known. The chance to be close to them meant everything. I wanted to be part of their family.

Just then I snapped out of my bitterness over missing out on Georgetown. I looked up and realized Mr. Salls had been staring at me for at least half a minute waiting for a reply. Embarrassed, I realized I had been lost in space. Hmm. Mr. Salls had just inquired if I was interested in Hopkins. What should I say? Should I tell him the truth? No, bad idea. Even though I had never been remotely interested in Johns Hopkins, I was very interested in what this meeting was about. I decided to tell a little fib.

"Mr. Salls, I don't know much about Johns Hopkins, but from what you told me last fall, yes, sir, I am very interested."

Fib? A much stronger word was called for. In reality I had just uttered the worst bald-faced lie of my life. I resisted the urge to touch my nose to see if it had grown any longer. I suppose Mr. Salls caught the insincerity in my voice because now it was his turn to grow silent. When Mr. Salls began to stare at me intently, I stopped breathing. It felt like he was conducting some sort of mind probe to discern the truth. Uh oh, what if Mr. Salls was just as psychic as Mrs. Ballantyne? What if he sensed what a phony I was? The suspense was brutal. 30 seconds? A minute? Maybe he was thinking about bringing up that cheating incident. Feeling a sudden surge of anxiety, I prayed he would not talk about that. Finally Mr. Salls gave a shrug of sorts. I assumed he had made up his mind.

"Very well. In that case, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to call an old friend of mine, Ralph O'Connor. Mr. O'Connor is the Houston-area representative for Johns Hopkins University. I would like for you to meet with him and learn more about his school."

Mr. Salls handed me a card with Mr. O'Connor's business number on it, then glanced at the door. I got the message, time to go. I departed swiftly.

As I headed for the school receptionist to call Mr. O'Connor, I wondered what Mr. Salls had been thinking about. If I had to guess, Mr. Salls had been very reluctant to give me this phone number. Disgusted with myself, I shook my head. Cheating on that test was the worst mistake I ever made.

I visited Mr. O'Conner at his palatial River Oaks home one night later. After extolling the strong points of a Hopkins education, he asked me to explain my financial status. After a 5-minute explanation, he nodded. We shook hands and I left. That was the last time I ever saw the man. One week later I received a letter in the mail from Hopkins announcing I had been awarded a full four year scholarship.

Here is what was curious. Putting things into perspective, according to the Inflation Calculator, the original $16,000 grant in 1968 was worth over $140,000 in 2023. Because I was young and stupid, at the time it never struck me as odd that Mr. O'Connor simply took my word for it. This brings up a very awkward question. How many shrewd businessmen hand a $140,000 gift to some unknown kid based on a 5-minute sob story? In retrospect, I can see now that Mr. O'Connor had simply confirmed SOMETHING HE ALREADY KNEW. And who do you suppose told him about me in the first place? I will never know why I was so brain dead, but not once did I suspect the involvement of my Headmaster. As incredulous as this sounds, not once did I suspect Mr. Salls had secretly arranged this scholarship behind my back. Given his curt demeanor during our brief April meeting, the thought that Mr. Salls had done me a favor never crossed my mind. He fooled me completely. Which is kind of strange if you stop and think about it. Theoretically I was reasonably intelligent, so what kept me from recalling how Mr. Salls had bullied me into applying to Johns Hopkins last September? How was Mr. Salls going to arrange a scholarship to Hopkins unless I applied ahead of time? One would think I could add two plus two, but apparently not. All I could think was how lucky I was to have applied Hopkins against my will. And how lucky I was that Mr. Salls was able to overlook my transgression.

One reason I was fooled was the last-minute timing. I will never know why my two benefactors waited till mid-April to give me the good news. It was very late in the school year, barely more than a month left. For that reason I assumed I was some sort of last-minute replacement. I thought Mr. O'Connor had contacted Mr. Salls to say some student he had given a scholarship to had changed his mind, so by chance did Mr. Salls have a substitute candidate?

Fortunately, 40 years later I learned the truth from none other than Mrs. Ballantyne. She said Mr. Salls had been keeping an eye on me ever since I joined his German class in my Freshman year. He knew long before me that I would be facing a serious problem given my father's considerable salary. Without telling me, he took a preemptive step. Mr. Salls and Ralph O'Connor were old friends who had a standing arrangement to send one St. John's student per year to Johns Hopkins. I suspect I had been their 1968 candidate all along. More than likely, one summer day in 1967 Mr. Salls picked up the phone and called his good friend.

"Listen, Ralph, I have a very good student who is perfect for your school. This young man has been with us for nine years and I know him well. He has good grades, good SAT scores, and studies hard. I am positive he can handle the academics at Hopkins.

In addition, this boy works his tail off. I have information from Ed Curran, one of our teachers here, that this young man is really worried about college finance. In fact, he has been working a grocery job after school for the past two and a half years due to trouble at home. In all my time at St. John's, I have never heard of a student going to these lengths.

Confidentially, this boy has the most screwed up parents of any student we have ever had at this school. There is no way this boy can afford to go to your school without a scholarship. Do you think you can help him?"

So now we know the origin of my college scholarship. Considering I had never met Ralph O'Connor in my life, I was stunned to receive this incredible gift out of the blue. Immensely grateful for this unexpected good fortune, I could not help but notice the similarity of my lucky break to the one Mrs. Ballantyne had once received from the gangster. It was very spooky how we seemed to lead parallel lives.

But what was even stranger was my continual blind spot regarding Mr. Salls. I graduated from St. John's convinced that Mr. Salls was glad to get rid of me. That is the complete truth. So let me clarify. Mr. Salls probably was angry at me! Who wouldn't be angry to do a favor only to watch a good student make a complete fool of himself? However, at the same time, I think Mr. Salls guessed why I was so badly out of control. Empathy. Based on his own difficult childhood, he probably knew I had to be worried out of my mind about college.

In 2014, I ran into Kim Salls, oldest son of Mr. Salls. We had a long talk about his father. I was stunned to learn Mr. Salls had grown up poor just like Mrs. Ballantyne and myself. How did he did escape the poverty trap? Scholarships. He earned a scholarship to Phillips Exeter and a scholarship to Harvard. [sound familiar?]

Imagine his surprise when Mr. Salls met a St. John's student who reminded him of himself. Mr. Salls took the trouble of asking Ed Curran, an English teacher I often confided in, to learn more about me. Mr. Salls was amazed to learn my childhood was just as tough as his had been. Reminded of his past, Mr. Salls felt the same kinship towards me as Mrs. Ballantyne. Well aware of my father's history with the school, he realized the financial bind I was facing and quietly arranged to help.

Kim Salls was a godsend because he was able to make me see why his father had been so furtive. Were it known that the Headmaster arranged scholarships for SJS students, the line would be out his door. That is why his father preferred to operate in total secrecy. As it turned out, Mr. Salls had been saving a scholarship to Johns Hopkins for me all year long. That is why he badgered me to apply to Hopkins back in September. That is why he decided to overlook the cheating incident. That is why he gave the Jones Scholarship to Katina instead of me.

When I lost to Katina, it never crossed my mind that Mr. Salls was saving a larger grant for me? Like I said, I thought Mr. Salls hated me after the cheating incident. Nothing could be further from the truth. Mr. Salls was not my enemy, he was my benefactor. Both he and Mrs. Ballantyne took me under their wing for the same reason. They both saw something in me that reminded me of themselves. Why did they want to help? Because once upon a time someone had helped them with a profound Act of Kindness.

When you cannot repay those who helped you get started, Pay it Forward.

role model

It had been a privilege to witness how Mrs. Ballantyne handled the sensitive subject of her daughter's award in such a classy way. I was impressed with her style. She had shown me how effective it is to bring awkward issues out in the open. By caring about me enough to share her personal story and discuss a risky subject involving her daughter, Mrs. Ballantyne had immeasurably softened the blow of losing the Jones Scholarship. "And the truth shall set you free." The subsequent healing was extraordinary.

In the days following our conversation, I wondered if Mrs. Ballantyne realized what a chance she had taken. Although I knew I would never hurt her, why did she trust me? She could see I was unstable. She could tell I was ready to explode. Once I told her about my problems with college finance, surely she sensed I might blame her for losing the Jones Scholarship. After all, I had lost the scholarship to her own daughter. What if I had gone berserk and started screaming at her? Mrs. Ballantyne chose to ignore the threat. Resolute and fearless, she patiently explained the background story even though she was under no obligation to do so. It was a magnificent gesture to take me into her confidence. Would any other woman in the same position have done so? Hard to say, but probably not.

Incredulous at how direct Mrs. Ballantyne had been, I was very impressed. I had never seen someone take this approach before. I could not help but recall the damage my father had caused by avoiding the touchy subject of college. Nor could I forget how my mother had destroyed my Senior year by refusing to openly discuss the financial problems that led to Little Mexico. The comparison in parenting skills was night and day. Given this command performance on how effective parents operate, I had found the perfect role model. If I was ever fortunate enough to have children, I made a solemn promise to emulate Maria Ballantyne.

fairy godmother

Every kid needs a hero and I had found mine. However, there was one thing I was very unhappy about. Although I was thrilled to finally meet the lady I had admired for nine years, the Supernatural overtones of our meeting left me very disturbed. The way we had met was so eerie, I had no choice but to consider the Hidden Hand of God for the second time in less than a month. In light of similar thoughts concerning the near-impossible way I had been caught cheating, something very strange was going on in my life. Now that I had met Mrs. Ballantyne, she was the only adult I trusted to ask for insight on the unusual and quite scary subject of Divine Intervention.

Unfortunately, I never got to ask my questions. Although the school year still had two months left, we did not speak again. That is because Mrs. Ballantyne seemingly disappeared after our parking lot conversation. This was mostly my fault. I should have tracked her down at school, but I was too shy to do something that bold with such an important woman. Since our paths normally crossed once a week over the past nine years, I assumed I would run into her eventually. For this reason, I failed to seek her out until it was too late. I did see her a couple times, but always from afar. The few times I spotted Mrs. Ballantyne, she was on the other side of our Quadrangle two hundred yards away and I had to get to class. I noticed her briefly at Graduation, but I was seated. After the ceremony, she disappeared in the crowd. With a sigh, I assumed I would never speak to Mrs. Ballantyne again. Which was a shame. I really liked her.

Shakespeare said the world is a stage and we are but the actors. In that sense, Mrs. Ballantyne had made a brief but powerful cameo appearance in my life, worked her magic, then vanished. Her unlikely disappearance served to further enhance the mythical aspect of our conversation. Since I was unable to get Mrs. Ballantyne's viewpoint on what had taken place, I had no choice but to analyze the Supernatural overtones on my own.

To me, the entire episode seemed ripped from Cinderella. The poor girl is miserable. She has reached the lowest point of her life. Poof! A Fairy Godmother appears out of nowhere and encourages Cinderella to pour her heart out. The Fairy Godmother listens to her story, then waves her magic wand. Poof! Cinderella is transformed. With her duty done, Cinderella's Fairy Godmother vanishes. Poof! The Fairy Godmother is never seen again.

I was desperate to know HOW and WHY the woman I had secretly selected nine years ago as the world's best mother had appeared as if by magic to release me from a terrible burden. Alas, my personal Fairy Godmother was gone. In the absence of any sort of Realistic explanation, I was left to dwell on the Supernatural nature of our amazing conversation all by myself. Unable to put the mystery to rest, this was the start of an intense three year spiritual journey. I was so profoundly moved by the experience, our visit ultimately became the foundation of my belief in God.

MIRACLES

According to various polls, the jury is out regarding the existence of God. Only 50% are fairly certain that a higher power exists. Given all the evil in the world, I can certainly see why a person would be skeptical. Fortunately, thanks to Maria Ballantyne, there is no doubt in my mind. I consider her intervention to be the closest thing to a Miracle I have ever witnessed. I would like to share how I reached my conclusion.

Timing

Mrs. Ballantyne practically lived at St. John's. Due to seven children, Mother's Guild responsibilities, plus her fondness for afternoon tea with fellow SJS mothers, she was always around. Back in the 4th Grade, I saw her frequently because afternoon tea was held in the Commons Room right next to my hallway locker. Every afternoon I stared at Mrs. Ballantyne like a worshipful puppy dog. Over the years I continued to study her from afar every chance I got. In addition we passed each other in the hall once every two weeks or so. Over the course of nine years, by the laws of random physics we should have bumped into each other sooner or later. Or at least shared eye contact. Nope. It never happened. Not once. And yet the moment I was locked in the worst crisis of my life, the woman I considered the world's finest mother appeared like a Fairy Godmother to the rescue. The Timing could not possibly have been more critical.

Probability

How does one know what kind of odds can be assigned to a coincidence of this magnitude? It is impossible. However, the phrase "One in a Million" is a good place to start.

Personally, I think the odds were greater than that.

Impact

Given the seriousness of my crisis, I felt like Mrs. Ballantyne had saved my life. That is more than enough Impact, but why stop there?

Oddly enough, shortly after graduation I experienced two more serious Coincidences plus a near-death car accident. One coincidence involved the mysterious appearance of a last-minute date for my Senior Prom. The other coincidence involved the unexpected sighting of my college girlfriend getting on a train with a new boyfriend. Factor in Bob Franklin's cheating coincidence and Mrs. Ballantyne's Fairy Tale coincidence, that was five unsettling events within a seven month period. If I added up the combined improbability of all five, the odds approached Infinity. Emily had decided to visit New York without telling me. No doubt she never imagined I would show up at the train station to discover her duplicity. I am one of those "things happen for a reason" people. Why would God slap me in the face with this vivid demonstration of my girlfriend's betrayal? Maybe God wanted me to consider the deeper implication of these mysterious events.

"The more frequently one uses the word �Coincidence� to explain bizarre happenings, the more obvious it becomes that one is not seeking, but rather evading the real explanation." -- Robert Anton Wilson

Unable to get these strange events out of my mind, I began a prolonged search for the meaning of life. After three years of analyzing every detail of the various coincidences to the nth degree, I became convinced the laws of Reality were insufficient to satisfactorily explain the underlying mysteries. And so my search became the foundation of my belief in God.

Weirdness

This story was off the charts for "Weirdness". This is a word I use whenever I try to describe some aspect I think might be "Supernatural" in origin. What would the movie tagline be?

"At the moment of a young boy's greatest trouble, a woman he has secretly admired his whole life magically appears to open his Door to Destiny. Based on a true story."

I remember what passed through my mind as Mrs. Ballantyne drove away after our long talk.

"I must be crazy! This was not some random person out of nowhere who came to save me, this was the most talented mother on earth. If I had been given a choice, I could not have picked a better person to help. Now for the life of me, I cannot stop thinking about her. What could have possibly brought this lady to my side at such an important moment?"

In 2005, a friend of mine named Keller Moot read an earlier version of this story. Although Keller loved the story, he had trouble accepting that Mrs. Ballantyne had shown up at the grocery store by accident. Before he could fully accept the obvious spiritual implications, Keller had to be convinced there was no 'Realistic' explanation for her mythical appearance. After several tentative inquiries over a two-week period, one day Keller abandoned his "one question at a time" approach. Seeing I was not busy, he confronted me with his suspicions.

"Rick, I cannot accept that Mrs. Ballantyne showed up by accident. I believe Mr. Salls must have told her something in advance to inspire her visit to your grocery store."

With a smile, I told Keller I had asked myself this same question a million times.

"Keller, the answer is no. I cannot think of a single explanation that makes any sense in Realistic terms other than it was a once-in-a-million accident. Mrs. Ballantyne had no business coming to a store so far out of her way. If Mr. Salls had tipped her off in advance, she would have introduced herself. But instead she had no idea who I was. Given the blank look on her face, I was a total stranger to her. She was there to shop, not to see me. For this reason I am convinced no one tipped her off in advance where I worked."

"Well, what about her daughter?"

"Katina was always cordial to me, but we were not friends. Even though our lockers were side by side alphabetically, I cannot recall a single time we spoke on a personal level. She had no idea what my story was nor did anyone else. Why would she speak to her mother?"

Keller was not convinced. "What about your teacher friend Mr. Curran? Maybe he said something."

"After I got caught cheating, I stopped speaking to Mr. Curran. I was too ashamed to admit what I done, so I avoided him. Other than my friend David, no one in the school had any idea how important the Jones Scholarship was to me. Besides, if someone passed on a tip to Mrs. Ballantyne, why would she go to the trouble of tracking me down at a grocery store? All she had to do was find me in the St. John's hallway."

"Can't you think of anything? To me, your story is beyond weird."

"Look, Keller, I agree with you. I spent three years in college trying to figure out what really took place, but in the end I could not come up with a single Realistic answer. It defies the imagination. Why would a prestigious woman give an hour of her time to a total stranger unless some kind of spark drew her to me? The time we spent together was so powerful that it changed the direction of my life. I was just as awestruck by Mrs. Ballantyne as St. Paul must have been the day Jesus blinded him with light, then opened his eyes to the truth. That is how important this moment was to me."

Keller thought it over, then begrudgingly nodded in agreement. I knew exactly what was going on. It is very scary to accept that God plays a direct role in our lives. But there comes a time when the facts make it clear there is no other choice.

"Okay, Rick, I see your point, but I had to ask. Now I have another question. If there is no Realistic explanation, then do you have an Un-Realistic explanation for what brought her there?"

"I have two theories, both of which are off the wall. One theory suggests that God, or an agent of God such as a guardian angel, sent this lady to my side via telepathic message. Mrs. Ballantyne's husband worked at the Medical Center, so maybe she passed by my store on her way home after visiting him. Another possibility was the nearby Annunciation Orthodox School. She was on the school board. In that case, her most direct route home would have been Alabama Street. This would have taken her right past my store. A timely telepathic suggestion that she "urgently" needed groceries did the rest. My grocery store was as good a place as any, so she turned in."

"What is your other theory?"

"My other theory is based on something Mark Twain said. His interest in Coincidence was well-known. "Ah, what a delightful thing a coincidence is! There isn't anybody to whom that mysterious conjunction which we call a coincidence is a matter barren of interest."

Twain encountered so many coincidences, he reached the point where he could no longer continue to dismiss them as curious accidents. Fed up with people who constantly downplayed bizarre coincidences as silly and unimportant, he decided most people avoided the truth because they feared spooky Occult explanations. He proposed a theory called 'Mental Telegraphy', a term I suppose is what we call ESP.

"I believe a mind can act upon another mind in a quite detailed and elaborate way over vast stretches of land and water. Somehow one mind can influence another mind through thought alone." -- Mark Twain

Mark Twain believed we are all connected at the level of the Soul. I happen to agree. In Real Life we were strangers, but at a deeper level Mrs. Ballantyne and I were linked. Carl Jung said something similar, calling it the Collective Unconscious. I think there is a distinct possibility that in my time of need, some deeper part of me telepathically summoned the finest mother I had ever met to my side."

Keller replied, "Most people would dismiss an explanation like Mental Telegraphy."

I nodded. "Yes, of course they would. Given how far-fetched my theory is, I can certainly see why. However, I cannot get the allusion of a Cinderella-like Fairy Godmother out of my mind. Here I am headed to the edge of the cliff and suddenly this amazing woman comes out of nowhere to lift my spirits. Her effect on me was so profound that I decided Mark Twain was right. Mrs. Ballantyne and I must have had some sort of mystical psychic connection that defies understanding."

"How did it feel when she began to tell you her life story?"

"I was absolutely stunned. But first I have question. Keller, who's your greatest hero?"

"President Kennedy."

"Perfect. Me too by the way. So you meet President Kennedy out in the woods in the middle of nowhere. That's crazy enough. He has a million better things to do, but instead he takes an immediate liking to you and strikes up a conversation. That's even crazier. Next thing you know, he's telling you his life story. How would you feel?"

"I would be blown away."

"Exactly. But here's what makes it even stranger. Right before I met Mrs. Ballantyne, her daughter won an award that rightfully should have gone to me. There was only one person in my entire graduating class that I had any energy on and it was Katina of all people because her mother was so important to me. And here's another thing. Okay, so one week later Katina's mother shows up at my grocery story. That does not explain why she instantly felt a strong connection to me. This incredibly busy woman sacrificed nearly an hour of her time to help a boy she had never met in her life. When you add up all the strange elements of this story, the long odds begin to approach Infinity."

"In your story, you did not come out and say it, but the way you described what happened, you made it sound like you considered this a Miracle. Is that what you think?"

"To me, it all boils down to Faith. I cannot prove this was a Miracle. However, given the Impact this experience has had on my life, this incident was the reason I began to believe in Fate. Given my fascination with this lady from the first moment I saw her nine years earlier, it seems likely that Mrs. Ballantyne was meant to play a special role in my life. Or maybe I was meant to play a special role in her life. Some people say Coincidence is a small miracle where God prefers to stay anonymous. Others may have their doubts, but to answer your question, yes, I think Mrs. Ballantyne's visit was a Miracle."

THE POWER OF a "simple act of kindness"

Rick Archer's Note:
This concludes the first chapter of my book Pay it Forward.

For those of you who are too busy to read the remaining seven chapters, but would like to know what happened next, consider the following segment to be a Sneak Preview.

I have written three books that span 65 years of my life. As it turns out, Maria Ballantyne plays a recurring role in each book.

My first book, A Simple Act of Kindness, shares the details of high school at St. John's, college at Johns Hopkins, and graduate school at Colorado State University. In this book, I cover the events that led up to my dramatic meeting with Mrs. Ballantyne in greater detail than Pay it Forward.

My second book, Magic Carpet Ride, covers the story of the unlikely coincidences that led to my dance career. Mrs. Ballantyne has an entire chapter dedicated to her where I spent the entire day with her. This chapter also appears in Pay it Forward.

My third book, Gypsy Prophecy, covers the story of the mysterious coincidences that led to my marriage to Marla, the love of my life. It turns out that Marla met a Gypsy who gave Marla a choice. If she wished, there was an excellent chance she could revive her six-year relationship with her current boyfriend. On the other hand, if she decided take a certain journey she had been considering, she would meet the man she would spend the rest of her life with. As it turns out, Mrs. Ballantyne's brother George played a major role in this truly amazing story.

In 2013, I learned a secret about Mrs. Ballantyne and her billionaire brother George that only I knew the significance of. There was no way to go back and rewrite the three previous books to include this new information. Besides, no one would understand the full significance of the role Mrs. Ballantyne played in my life given that her appearances were scattered over three books. For that reason, I wrote Pay it Forward specifically to share Maria Ballantyne's complete story as well as the story of her brother George.

Regarding A Simple Act of Kindness, as it turns out, Maria Ballantyne gave me the title for this book. Ten years after we met in the parking lot of my grocery store, we met again under unusual circumstances. During our second conversation, she uttered her immortal "Act of Kindness" phrase.

As I wrote earlier, Mrs. Ballantyne disappeared following the 1968 Parking Lot Coincidence even though two months remained in the school year. Saddled with important questions, I was beyond frustrated to miss my chance to ask if she had sensed the same Supernatural implications as me. I was also sad. Now that we had become friends, once I graduated I assumed I would never see her again. Let's face it, she was rich and I was not. We traveled in much different social circles.

Fortunately I was wrong. Ten years later Mrs. Ballantyne reappeared out of thin air. Lacking any obvious reason to explain our latest connection, our second meeting was just as much an eerie coincidence as the first. Surprised, we both grinned in quiet acknowledgement that there is more to this world than meets the eye.

Fortunately, this time I was not locked in crisis. In fact, I had just begun a second job as a part-time dance instructor. I was having so much fun, I secretly hoped this could turn into a career (and it did).

Mrs. Ballantyne had long wondered whatever became of me. She was so pleased to see me again, she invited me to lunch at her house later the same day. During the meal, I filled her in on my past ten years. Now it was her turn. She beckoned me into her living room, then proceeded to tell me her life story in far greater detail.

Here is a brief excerpt. (You can read the full story in the next chapter of this book).

MARIA AND THE GODFATHER

Maria Ballantyne was born on Christmas Day, 1920. It was now 1931. Following the tragic death of her mother, Maria moved to a house with a strange secret. To the casual observer, this two-story building was a restaurant downstairs and a living area upstairs. But what about that side door in the restaurant guarded by two men at all times?

Curious to know why a continuous parade of tough-looking men and scarlet women kept going in and out that door, Maria tried to enter only to be stopped by the guards. It took a while, but Maria eventually figured out this mysterious door served as entrance to a hidden casino and brothel. She had just discovered her new home was a front for the Galveston mob and that her aunt's restaurant was one of their favorite hang-outs. That included Sam Maceo, the powerful head of the Galveston Mafia.

"Mrs. Ballantyne, back when we first met ten years ago, you said a gangster paid your way to college. However, you hesitated sharing further details. Would you be willing to tell me the story?"

"When we met in 1968, I did not know you very well, so I was cautious. My children are grown now, so I don't care what people think anymore. His name was Sam Maceo. He knew me because my dissolute father occasionally did small jobs for his syndicate. In addition, Mr. Maceo visited my uncle's restaurant on occasion because he had one of his gambling and prostitution operations hidden behind a well-guarded door. Since I lived upstairs, I had to cross through the restaurant to get to my bedroom. Mr. Maceo enjoyed eating at the restaurant and would see me. He always went out of his way to greet me. I was 11 at the time. He knew my mother had just died and he also knew my father had forced me to live with my aunt, then abandoned me. I think Mr. Maceo felt sorry for me."

Mrs. Ballantyne winced noticeably. No doubt it hurt to talk about this difficult time in her life.

"I always thought gangsters were dangerous men. You weren't afraid of him?"

"No. Sam Maceo had a reputation more as a businessman than a gangster. He was not known for bloodshed. Once he gained power, he ruled his domain with benevolence, not so much with threat. It was kind of funny. This was the Depression, but thanks to him, Galveston was doing very well. Everyone knew he brought so much prosperity to the island, the police had no trouble whatsoever turning a blind eye."

"How did you meet him?"

"My father was a real jerk. Noting how my father was preoccupied with gambling and chasing women, Mr. Maceo did not approve of his behavior. A firm believer in Family, he was disgusted by my father's neglect of duty. Mr. Maceo would spot me as I walked through the restaurant after school and smile at me. I was so lonely, I loved the attention. I would always smile back. Then one day he waved to me and beckoned for me to come over. As I stood there trembling at his booth, Mr. Maceo asked me how school was going and if I needed anything. I just stared in awe. I was much too intimidated to say a word."

Mrs. Ballantyne paused to laugh. With a twinkle in her eye, she said, "Can you imagine me being speechless about anything?" She giggled a second time, then continued.

"Mr. Maceo teased me about being so quiet, then asked me my name. When I answered, he quipped, "Ah, so you can talk after all." He handed me a dollar and told me to spend it wisely. The next time I saw him, this time I found my voice and we talked for a couple minutes. He smiled the entire time. After that, I got in the habit of going over to his table to chat whenever I saw him. Each time he would hand me a dollar. I was so starved for attention, I was grateful to anyone who was willing to be nice to me. One day he handed me another dollar and I told him he didn't need to do that. When I handed it back to him, Mr. Maceo seemed a little miffed.

"Why don't you want my dollar?" he asked.

"Because, Mr. Maceo, I would rather talk to you for free."

What a smile! He got the biggest kick out of that. That is how we became friends."

When Maria reached high school age three years later, her aunt and uncle moved to San Antonio to open a restaurant of their own. Unbeknownst to her, the Godfather kept tabs. Through the grapevine, Sam Maceo learned she desperately yearned to go to college, but there was no money. College was out of the question. [sound familiar?]

Using her older brother George as an intermediary, Maceo sent word that he wished to pay Maria's way. Maria was astonished. What did she ever do to deserve a gift of this magnitude? Living so far away, Maria did not see Maceo again. However she never forgot him. Nor did she forget that his gift had opened her Door to Destiny.

"Rick, the gift of a college education was the luckiest break of my life. Since I was born on Christmas Day, I am quite familiar with the concept of Christmas Miracles. That is what this felt like to me. This was my big chance to make something of myself. I was so grateful I have never been able to get what he did out of my mind. I was so touched by his gesture that I promised to make a conscious effort to help those who are less fortunate for the rest of my life. But there was more to it than that. This man was a better father to me than my own father. I was so impressed by what he had done, I made a vow to be a better parent to my children than my father had been to me."

"Why do you suppose Maceo did what he did?"

"Sam Maceo was a powerful and very wealthy man. As an immigrant himself, he knew how tough it was to get ahead in the new world. For that reason he liked to help children on the island whose parents were immigrants. On a whim he reached out to me. To him, it was no big deal to help a struggling girl. But to me, his gift meant the world. That is why I have always referred to his generosity as "A Simple Act of Kindness", small to him, profound to me."

PASSING THE TORCH

Maria Ballantyne passed away in 2015. She was 94 at the time. Her daughter Marina wrote a beautiful elegy.

"My mother's dream was to marry a man her children could respect and to create the home she never had growing up. That she did. We adored and respected our father, an internationally renowned head and neck cancer surgeon who worked at M.D. Anderson his entire career. The warm, inviting, beautiful home she created was constantly filled with her children's friends, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and people from all over the world who lived with Mom at various times. The famous Christmas parties she hosted for 45 years and the pool parties for Dad's residents filled our home with music, joy, and laughter. Our home was a haven for those in need - from the poorest hospital patients to royalty. Mom treated princes and paupers the same with respect and a strong dose of her unique brand of truth serum sprinkled with a sailor's vernacular. Waiters, bus boys, parking attendants and shop owners would run to kiss her because she saw them - really saw them - and made them feel special.

Mom's civic activities included The Park People, Blue Bird Circle, and the Annunciation Orthodox School Board. She could beat all seven of her children at tennis, and, as legend has it, even beat her brother George when he was captain of A&M's tennis team. But her main focus was always her children and their families. She was a fixture at St. John's School where she and our father cheered zealously at her children's sporting and music events. No mother could have given more to her seven children and their spouses, her 21 grandchildren and their spouses, 11 great grandchildren, 12 of her brother's nieces and nephews and their families, her Ballantyne in-laws and 20 nieces and nephews and their families, plus her "adopted" children she leaves behind. The outpouring of love extended to her by all of these in her last days is the greatest testament to a life well lived and a heart that loved completely. Her consistent message of the importance of family, gratitude, persistence, forgiveness, and unconditional love is imprinted on her heirs and will echo for generations to come."

"My mother's message... will echo for generations to come."

What an eloquent way to put it. As Marina made clear, her mother dedicated her life to spreading Kindness as far as she possibly could. It is amazing to think how many lives this remarkable woman touched. One of those lives was mine.

Perhaps the Reader noticed Marina's comment about her mother's "adopted children". Given that Marina was familiar with my story, I have a hunch that phrase was a sly reference to me. Over the course of 50 years, I would meet with Mrs. Ballantyne on six occasions. Other than my final visit when I asked to speak to her concerning her feelings about appearing in this book, every encounter was a complete surprise to me.

Here is what is odd. Each time we met she would eagerly share new revelations about her past. Not a moment was wasted on small talk; no prompting was ever necessary. As I listened, I could not help but wonder why she was so willing to share such deeply personal information with me. To be honest, I rarely got a word in edgewise. I did not mind, of course, but I am also serious. 99% of the time all I did was listen.

"Why does she trust me so much?" I asked. Indeed, Mrs. Ballantyne trusted me from the moment we met. Although I loved listening to her stories, there was a downside to our conversations. Given that I would not dream of interrupting her, I was never able to ask questions concerning her personal views about God. Instead I took dictation in a manner of speaking. Given that she never directly addressed our strange bond, I have no choice but to speculate why she shared so freely.

Here is my theory. From where I stand, Maria Ballantyne was given a life mission to pass on the message of kindness and charity. One motivation was gratitude born of the example set by Sam Maceo. Others might say it was Divine Inspiration to pay Maceo's gift forward. Among the many lives that Mrs. Ballantyne touched, I think I was given the unique role to become her biographer. Given how perceptive she was, surely my friend took note of the same spiritual implications of our 1968 meeting as me. Then something equally unusual happened when we circled back in 1978. Our day began with another one of those "What are YOU doing here!?" kind of coincidences. The moment I saw her, my Supernatural Alarm Bell went off. I imagine Mrs. Ballantyne was just as disconcerted as I was.

When we sat down for lunch later in the day, I had my Reality-testing equipment working overtime. Given the strange mood I was in, I wanted to share how she had inspired my spiritual journey in college. I also wanted to ask what she thought about God, Fate, and Miracles. However, keep in mind I barely knew this lady. Although we had participated in a Miracle together (or at least I thought so), I had no idea if she shared a similar wavelength. Plus I had this woman up on a pedestal. Given how intimidated I felt in her presence, I lacked the courage to address such sensitive topics. So I substituted the coincidence of our matching college scholarships instead.

"Mrs. Ballantyne, when we first met, you said my childhood reminded you of your own experience. Two weeks after we talked, a man I had never met in my life handed me a full scholarship to college. Now we can add that to our list of childhood similarities. We can both say the unexpected gift of a college scholarship was the luckiest break of our lives."

Mrs. Ballantyne did a double-take. What do you suppose crossed her mind? This is just a guess, but in that moment perhaps she sensed how strange it was for us both to be the beneficiaries of identical and quite remarkable Acts of Kindness. How often do strangers offer a college scholarship to someone they barely know? The odds of this coincidence was so rare, it is possible at some level, conscious or otherwise, this information confirmed her hunch that we were linked.

If so, that might explain what happened next. Mrs. Ballantyne invited me into her living room and proceeded to tell me her life story in far greater detail. Why would she do this? I think Mrs. Ballantyne had decided to pass the torch. In 1938 Sam Maceo touched Maria with his Act of Kindness. In 1968 Maria turned around and touched me with her Act of Kindness. Now in 1978 Mrs. Ballantyne sensed I might have been given a special duty to carry her legacy forward. If so, the more I knew about her, the better prepared I would be to spread her message forward.

Forgive me if I have overstepped, but there had to be a purpose to her methods. For sake of argument, let's assume I am right. If so, was I consciously aware she was passing a torch? No, or at least not when we spoke in 1978. But then we kept on meeting. 2005. 2009. 2010. Each time she would resume as if there had been no passage of time. I realize it is presumptuous to assume I know what passed through her mind. Nevertheless, for whatever reason, she was clearly intent on imparting her message.

Was making me her biographer a conscious decision? I doubt it. But I do believe "Fate" selected me to be her biographer. It makes perfect sense. Why else would she take me under her wing? By sharing her life story with me, I could extend the ripple effect of her amazing message of Kindness. Indeed, after she passed away, I learned there was another amazing fact to this story that only I am in a position to share (a future chapter in this book). If I did not speak up, then no one would ever know this fascinating piece of history. For that reason, I believe I was given a duty. Just to be clear, I make no claim of omniscience. What I do claim is my unusual experiences with Mrs. Ballantyne give me the moral right to raise these possibilities.

In addition to becoming Maria Ballantyne's biographer, I have passed her message on in a different way. Our 1978 conversation took place at the very start of my dance career. As my life unfolded, over the next 32 years I would create the largest dance studio in America. Considering the long-shot odds against such an accomplishment, I believe I was the beneficiary of a considerable amount of Divine assistance. If so, why? By placing me in position where I could share her message with half a million students, I was able to carry on the legacy of Kindness handed from Sam Maceo to Maria Ballantyne, then handed to me as well as to her talented children.

"My mother's message... will echo for generations to come."

A LOOK BACK AT ST. JOHN'S

In 1968 I was the beneficiary of not one, but two "Simple Acts of Kindness". One benefactor was Mrs. Ballantyne, the other was Mr. Salls. In 2009 Mrs. Ballantyne revealed the truth behind the mystery of my scholarship to Johns Hopkins.

Christie Ballantyne, one of Maria's four sons, had asked for lessons in Swing Dancing. One night Christie and his lovely wife Yasmine showed up with a surprise guest. Mrs. Ballantyne watched her son's lesson with considerable glee. She had been a Swing dancer herself during the Big Band Era. When the lesson ended, I put on music and told the couple to practice. Then I made a beeline to my friend for a joyful reunion.

As usual, without prompting Mrs. Ballantyne launched into memories of the past. She reminded me that Sam Maceo's gift was the key to her breakthrough. His gift of a college education had allowed this young woman to enter an entire new world, a world which would include her wonderful husband and children. However, by the time she discovered the full impact of Maceo's gift, her benefactor was long gone. Unable to directly thank Maceo for his help, she decided the best thing to do was find others who needed help and pay her gratitude forward. She concluded with a bombshell.

"Isn't it strange that we were both recipients of college scholarships that took us totally by surprise? I am so glad that Charlie was able to help you."

"Charlie?" I was astonished. Only the closest friends of my formidable Headmaster had permission to call him by his nickname. This was how I learned that Mr. Salls was one of Mrs. Ballantyne's best friends. Upon further questioning, Mrs. Ballantyne revealed how Mr. Salls had secretly arranged my scholarship with Ralph O'Connor, the wealthy oilman turned philanthropist. I was stunned beyond my wildest imagination. I had graduated in 1968 under the misconception that Mr. Salls was furious with me following the cheating episode. Completely fooled, I had no idea that Mr. Salls was in reality the great benefactor of my life. Dumbfounded, I sat there too choked up to say a word. Knowing that Mr. Salls had passed away in 1985, I was filled with an incredible sense of regret. How would I ever be able to thank him? The answer was clear. Pay it Forward.

Seeing me lost in thought, Mrs. Ballantyne broke the silence with an unusual observation.

"Rick, considering how bitter you were when I met you back in high school, it is amazing to me you didn't end up in Montana writing a manifesto to justify bombing innocent people. I am so grateful you turned out differently than these fools today who think their problems can be solved by hurting others. Boo hoo hoo, so life is tough! Get over it! Skip the pity and do something positive with your life. Instead these morons go to a school and murder defenseless children. What does that accomplish? So now I'm curious. Considering all your problems, how did you ever manage to turn out okay?"

I nodded. I knew exactly what she was getting at.

"Mrs. Ballantyne, my school gave me a fighting chance in life. For that reason I never dreamed of hurting someone at St. John's. I admit I was angry over how lucky my classmates had it, but I knew my problems were not their fault. Besides, even in my darkest moments during my Senior year, I loved my teachers. My respect for them was off the charts. Not only did they instill a burning desire for achievement, several teachers went out of their way to be better parents to me than the ones I had. They made a huge difference. Mr. Chidsey gave me a scholarship and Mr. Curran invited me to his home for long talks. Now you tell me that Mr. Salls sent me to college. Thank goodness he trusted there was more to me than my awful behavior. Yes, I was a bitter kid, but not towards St. John's. The color of my blood will remain Red and Black till I die."

A FIGHTING CHANCE IN LIFE

I have made the claim that I was given the responsibility to pay Maria Ballantyne's legacy forward. If so, how did I accomplish that?
Maria Ballantyne and Charlie Salls were not alone in their concern for me. As I told Mrs. Ballantyne, there were several teachers at St. John's who stepped forward to do the job my parents were incapable of. These exceptional people gave of their heart without any expectation of reward in return. Without their help, I would have never made it out of childhood with even a semblance of sanity.

However, there was only so much these kind and decent people could do. Given the profound emotional problems caused by my parents, I did not escape my childhood unscathed. My shyness, my problems with authority, my lack of experience with girls and my sense of social inferiority would come back to haunt me time after time. Personally speaking, I would have greatly preferred an easier childhood. However, as I explained to Mrs. Ballantyne, where would I have been without St. John's? In the grand tradition of Nietzsche's "That which doesn't kill you", I could see my time at St. John's had forged a strong determination to persist even though the odds were against me. Considering the serious reversals I would face in the future, there was no guarantee I would succeed. Thankfully, the lessons learned at St. John's had given me a fighting chance.

Speaking of those emotional problems, in 1974 I was thrown out of Graduate School. In Hindsight, given my childhood I guess I should not have been surprised. So what went wrong?

During my college years, I had spent untold hours thinking about the Parking Lot Miracle. After a great deal of thought, I developed a strong faith in God. As part of my conversion to a spiritual path, I told God I wished to help people in much the same way Mrs. Ballantyne had once helped me.

I decided to become a therapist. Although this was a noble ambition, it turned out I was unsuited for the role. Observing that my childhood problems had turned me into an emotional cripple, the head of the department decided I was too unhealthy to be trusted with others. So he sent me packing. It hurts to admit, but given how screwed up I was, perhaps he made the right decision. Nevertheless, I was beyond devastated.

Here's the sad thing. My heart was in the right place. If they had given me the same kind of second chance that Mr. Salls bestowed after I cheated, I very well could have rewarded their patience. But here is what is strange. Little did I know there was something far better waiting for me down the road, the chance to create my dance studio. For that reason, perhaps my graduate school failure was part of God's plan.

There was also a silver lining. During my year in the Psychology program, I saw a gifted therapist. Together we began the long process of repairing the damage from childhood. In other words, yes, I was crushed to be sent packing, but in a manner similar to St. John's, my time with the therapist gave me a fighting chance to face my next set of obstacles with at least some chance of success.

Hitting Rock Bottom with a giant thud, I was locked in the worst depression since my Senior year Crisis. Unfortunately, this time there was no Maria Ballantyne to pick me back up. Struggling to regain my confidence following Graduate School, I found my answer in the strangest of places. On a visit to a bookstore, I ran across a used $1.00 paperback with a weird title, The Mistress Book. Given that I owed my elite nine-year education at St. John's to my father's mistress, I could not resist a peek.

The book contained an interesting suggestion.

"The fastest polite way to get a woman he doesn't know in a man's arms is to ask her to dance."

Given my frightening lack of experience around women dating back to high school, the thought of using dance to place a woman in my arms was a bold fantasy. Believing I had been drawn to this book for a Supernatural purpose, I signed up for dance lessons.

Unfortunately I was a slow learner. However, St. John's had taught me persistence, so I refused to quit despite my lack of progress. Three years later, out of the blue I was handed a modest part-time job teaching line dances to 10 people. I did not ask for this job. It was just handed to me. Nor was I very good at it. However the stakes were low. We weren't talking "brain surgery" here. Even a clod like me could teach line dancing. I was funny and my students liked the class, so I plugged along in spite of my limitations.

Two months later, Saturday Night Fever took the country by storm. Disco students appeared out of the woodwork. In the space of one month, I was teaching three hours every night of the week. Well aware my new job as a full-time dance teacher was a total fluke, I was convinced this extraordinary set of circumstances was no accident. To me, it dated back to the idea in the mysterious Mistress Book. Astonished by my sudden good fortune, I loved what I was doing so much, I told God I wanted to teach dance for the rest of my life. However, that is when I second-guessed myself. Given my utter mediocrity, maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Unsure where this new job was going, believe it or not, I questioned God's judgment.

"Uh, God, thank you very much, but are you sure about this?"

Yes, I know what you're thinking. Only Rick Archer would be stupid enough to question God. However, I had every right to feel this way. Goodness gracious, it had taken me three years to become slightly better than average as a dancer. Nor did I have any training as an instructor. My only credential was that I happened to be in the right place at the right time when the movie hit town. This whole thing was a perfect example of "Weirdness". I never asked to be a dance teacher. It was handed to me out of thin air. Nor had I trained to be a dance teacher. Totally unprepared for this sudden promotion, few people could have been more ill-suited. My boss called me "The Dance Teacher who couldn't dance." A cruel thing to say, but it was true. Considering I was not much of a teacher and barely better at dancing than my own students, I assumed he would terminate me any day now just as my professor in Graduate School had.

Sure enough, I figured the end was near when my boss handed me an insurmountable task. I had two weeks to learn how to teach people to partner dance like John Travolta in the movie. If I failed, he would teach the class himself until he found someone better qualified than me. As an afterthought, my boss added he wasn't going to help me learn. I knew what he was thinking. Why waste his time?

Considering I had never partner danced in my life, I was panic-stricken. There was no one to teach me, so I would have to figure it out myself. This was a tall task considering I was the proverbial slow learner when it came to dance. This test was so far beyond my talent, the 12 Labors of Hercules came to mind. But what choice did I have? Threatened with the loss of the only thing that had given me satisfaction since graduating from St. John's, I wanted this job more than anything in the world.

Despite my sense of hopelessness, I went to a Disco that night. To my surprise, a girl I had never met offered to show me a move. When I went back the next night, another girl did the same thing. Over a two week period one person after another, all strangers, came out the blue to offer a suggestion, then disappeared. This series of "Simple Acts of Kindness" not only saved my job, it helped me become the first teacher in Houston to offer lessons in Disco partner dancing. Given this lead, I refused to relinquish it. At the turn of the Millennium, I now owned the largest dance studio in the country.

Did I possess the talent to do this on my own? Don't be ridiculous. As far as I am concerned, all credit goes to God. There is an Arabic saying that God will move two mountains if something is meant to be. Given the kind of lucky breaks I was handed, in my case God probably had to move three mountains. Surrounded by good fortune bordering on the miraculous, I referred to this journey as my "Magic Carpet Ride".

I can say these things because I know how wonderful everything turned out. However I was not optimistic when my boss threatened to fire me. Indeed, it would take three years of constant turmoil before I could finally breathe a sigh of relief.

We can understand how someone like Patrick Swayze or John Travolta became a success. They had natural ability plus the advantage of good parents to guide them. But what about me? How does someone with no obvious advantage become a success? I couldn't dance a lick. Plus I lacked social skills. If you don't believe me, ask the guy who tossed me from graduate school. So what turned the corner for me?

One advantage was the memory of lessons learned at St. John's. My school had taught me the value of hard work. In addition, I kept getting handed lucky breaks. After three years of facing one obstacle after another, a strange phenomenon sent the studio soaring into the upper stratosphere. There is a special love potion that takes place when a man puts a woman in his arms. Call it a "chemical, physical, emotional devotion".

Late in that third year, the studio acquired a magical reputation as the best place in Houston to find a boyfriend or girlfriend. It was like someone turned on a switch. Practically overnight, all sorts of romances which had incubated in my dance classes turned into marriages. This was not a one-time flash in the pan, but rather a sign of things to come. So many people were meeting their future spouses at the studio that I coined a term for it, "Slow Dance leads to Romance".

Over the course of 32 years, the dance studio would go on to help create roughly 400 marriages, an average of one new wedding per month. Every one of these marriages started the same way. "Would you like to dance?"

I was not the only person who noticed this phenomenon. Many people sensed the intangible spirit of warmth that permeated the studio. Now that SSQQ had gained a reputation as a veritable garden of love, the ensuing word of mouth was so powerful the future success of the studio would never be in doubt again. What was I to make of this good fortune?

Mark Twain once said the two most important days of your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why. I had just discovered what he meant. Using lessons learned from my past, I had designed the finest wedding assembly line imaginable. Full of awe, I was certain this wedding phenomenon as well as the enduring spirit of friendship was the reason God had placed me here. This was my "Walking with Destiny" moment.

"I felt as if I were walking with Destiny, and that all my past life had been but a preparation for this hour and for this trial."

-- Winston Churchill

Given the severity of my childhood handicaps, my future accomplishments made little sense. However, when Fate is involved, anything is possible. At the time of my revelation, I firmly believed I had been prepared by my difficult past to know exactly what to do when the time came. Thank you, St. Johns, for giving me a fighting chance. Using lessons taught to me by Mr. Salls and Mrs. Ballantyne, I dedicated my life to "Pay it Forward".

In my heart I cannot shake the feeling that Mrs. Ballantyne was sent to my side that day to put me out of my suffering. No other explanation makes a bit of sense. I love the Parking Lot story because it felt like a mystical experience at the time. In the years since, my conviction has become unshakeable.

The easiest way to explain the impact of Mrs. Ballantyne's visit would be to compare it to Clarence, the angel in Jimmy Stewart's "Wonderful Life". During my crisis, I needed Maria Ballantyne as much as George Bailey needed Clarence. Crippled by a series of tough breaks, I responded to her encouragement as a wounded person would to a kind soul who offers a healing touch.

As rescues go, they do not get better than this. I was a beaten kid convinced he was the bigger loser on earth. It was just my Luck the most talented mother I knew just happened to show up. I do not believe this was an accident. I am convinced Maria Ballantyne was sent to my side by the Hidden Hand of God.

Why do some people get up while others stay down? Based on my own experience, I contend the answer might boil down to an unexpected Helping Hand. In the movie Ben Hur, Judah Ben-Hur was bound and chained en route to become a slave in the Roman galleys. He was cruelly denied water by the guards as he crossed the hot desert sands. Dying of thirst in the extreme heat, Ben Hur collapsed. On the ground near death, Ben Hur whispered, "God, please help me..."

Seconds later, a man came to him and gave him water. A nearby Roman soldier stared in disbelief at this bold act of defiance. An instant later, the guard cowered in recognition of the divinity of Jesus. Jesus had appeared out of nowhere to offer a bowl of water to a suffering man full of despair. This powerful moment gave Ben Hur the courage he needed to continue on despite an absolutely hopeless situation.

Now the cynical among us scoff and say something this preposterous does not happen in real life. Guess what? I am living proof that it does happen. An Act of Kindness can make a profound difference in the life of a crippled person. When Mrs. Ballantyne rescued me in high school, her appearance reminded me of this exact scene in Ben Hur.

Looking back, I believe it was my Fate to be placed in a very deep hole at the start of my life. Then, like Ben Hur, people were sent to help me climb out of that hole. Their unexpected Acts of Kindness allowed me to overcome my handicaps.

Why were Helping Hands extended to me and not to others? I do not possess the wisdom to know the answer. All I can say is that when things were at their most dire, Maria Ballantyne handed me a bowl of water. Given a fresh start, I vowed to share the power of "A Simple Act of Kindness" with others whenever given the chance. In this way I could ensure Maria's message would "echo on for generations to come".

REGARDING "PAY IT FORWARD"

Rick Archer's Note:

I have explained how I learned the importance of "A Simple Act of Kindness" thanks to the charismatic Maria Ballantyne.

We also learned that a Galveston gangster named Sam Maceo paid Maria's way to college. This was the lucky break that changed the direction of her life. Maria was so grateful that she would hold Galveston's Godfather in reverence for the rest of her life.

As it turned out, Sam Maceo performed a similar "Act of Kindness" for someone else. The recipient was so profoundly moved by Maceo's generosity that later in life this man took a ruined city - Galveston - and singlehandedly restored it to prosperity.

What you have read is a condensed version of an eight chapter book. If you would like to read the full story, by all means let me know and I let you read it on the Internet at no charge.

Thank you for reading.
Rick Archer
rick@ssqq.com

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