My elementary school music teacher loved strawberry pie. She craved it, she told us, until one fateful day when the last bite of a long-awaited slice was corrupted by a bad strawberry. The rotten taste shifted her life’s pie-eating trajectory, and years of bliss were negated by one wayward berry: She no longer craved strawberry pie. “That’s why the last note of a song is so important,” she said.
I can’t remember a thing about my elementary school music teacher, except that strawberry pie anecdote. I’m as concerned as you are that this story has been tucked away in the crevices of my brain for two decades. Why is it so easy for me to remember? Why am I able to respond so fully to the question, “Caroline, can you explain Mrs. McNatt’s aversion to strawberry pie?” yet the question, “What’s the equation of a line?” leaves me flummoxed and RIDDEN WITH SHAME?
Is this evidence that my high school education completely failed me? No, I think it’s less serious than that.
I think our brains are designed for stories.Read More