Improvising
Dear Diary:
When the 10th anniversary of my move to New York City came around, I selected a Friday evening in June to celebrate with a barbecue at my Gowanus apartment.
String lights swayed in the breeze. The coals glowed white hot in the grill. The Popsicles were organized in the freezer.
One thing was missing: a cooler for drinks.
I walked to the nearby grocery store to pick up one of those inexpensive foam coolers that seem to be ubiquitous in the summer.
But after a fruitless lap around the aisles and a series of head shakes from store workers, I felt defeated and turned toward the door.
“Amigo!” a voice from the storeroom in back yelled.
I walked over to find a young man grinning and gesturing toward some empty cardboard boxes. He quickly fortified one with layers of discarded Styrofoam and added a big black trash bag as a liner.
Together, we emptied some beer and two bags of ice into our new makeshift cooler, and I carried it proudly back to the party.
The drinks stayed ice cold all night.
— Blake Ward
A Sister’s Gift
Dear Diary:
It sat silent and broken in my jewelry box for 40 years: a stunning Swiss watch that my sister had bought for me on a high school trip to Italy 55 years ago.
I looked at it often with fondness but had never taken time out of my busy life to get it fixed.
One day, a colleague asked me to accompany her on a trip to have her watch repaired. Before heading out, I decided to retrieve mine.
After making our way to an old basement repair shop in Borough Park, Brooklyn, we handed our watches to the older man there, and he disappeared into the back.
He returned after a brief time and handed my watch back to me.
Heartbroken, I figured it was beyond repair. Then the man smiled at me.
“My dear,” he said, “all you had to do was wind it.”
— Mary Ann Radioli Samaha
Baritone’s Phone
Dear Diary:
On a cold, bleak October day, my husband and I sat in a cab moving at a snail’s pace down Lexington Avenue on our way to get our flu shots.
It had not been a good morning. We had just come from the hospital, where we had learned that my husband needed a hip replacement. The doctor had suggested we cancel our December travel plans and have the surgery right after Christmas.
While digesting this dispiriting news, a cellphone buzzed. We spotted it on the floor. It was not ours. I quickly answered.
The caller identified herself as the artistic liaison at the Metropolitan Opera. The cellphone belonged to one of the company’s lead baritones and he would gladly pick it up at our apartment, she said. I gave her our address and name.
Later that evening, our doorman notified us that a gentleman was waiting for us in the lobby. I felt a frisson of anxiety at meeting a world-renowned opera star.
I shouldn’t have. He couldn’t have been more grateful or gracious. We talked with him easily for 20 minutes before wishing him well at his performances and saying good night.
It doesn’t get any better than this, I thought.
But it did.
The next morning, I received an email offering us tickets to two operas. We didn’t get to travel over the holidays, but we did get to hear the magnificent voice of the baritone whose phone we had found.
— Barbara Berg
Sample Sale
Dear Diary:
I recently heard that my favorite Scandinavian outerwear brand was having an online sample sale offering steep discounts. So I went to the company’s retail shop in SoHo to double-check my size before buying anything.
While I was trying on puffer jackets at the store, I shared the main mirror with another customer.
“That’s nice,” I said to her, commenting on a parka she had tried on.
“I like it, too,” she said. “I’m new to this brand.”
If a salesperson had not been there helping us, I might have told the woman about the sample sale. As it was, I left the shop and went to another store across the street.
Not long after I entered, the same woman rushed up to me.
“I’m so glad I saw you again,” she said, excitedly. “If you liked those jackets, there’s a sample sale … ”
— Kari Jensen
Long-Distance Call
Dear Diary:
Boarding an M7 bus, I noticed that there were no empty seats. A young man waved to me and offered me his.
“Thank you,” I said. “Tell your mom she did a good job.”
“I will,” he answered, “but it will have to be at a seance.”
— Arthur Flug
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Illustrations by Agnes Lee
