On being ... touched

By Ingrid Sapona

I read two F. Scott Fitzgerald short stories this week. Why? Because my 8th grade social studies teacher (I’ll call him Mr. P) talked about a quote from a Fitzgerald short story that inspired him. (I couldn’t remember the exact title, so looking for the quote I ended up reading a couple stories.) The quote came up in a Zoom call that one of my classmates set up in honour of Mr. P’s 80th birthday. 

I’ve kept in touch with a few of my high school classmates on a one-on-one basis. Recently I emailed three of them asking for their thoughts on something and someone suggested we do a Zoom call to discuss it. During that call we started reminiscing about teachers and classmates we’ve lost touch with these (gasp) 45+ years. Turns out each of us had particularly fond memories of Mr. P and of a play we wrote in that class.

The classmate who set up the Zoom decided to look up Mr. P. She found his email address and contacted him. When she learned his birthday was coming up, she asked him if he’d be ok if she set up a Zoom call for his birthday. He was delighted and so she set it up, inviting 10 of us who remembered Mr. P’s class and the play.

The call started out as you’d expect when you run into folks you’ve not seen for years. Mr. P was interested in hearing what we went on to do with our lives. Of course, there was some ribbing about various professions, though we’ve all had successful careers. And, as happens at all reunions, there was some gossip about the school and our classmates.

The conversation soon turned to what Mr. P meant to us. Some reflected very specifically on the impact the class had on their life. One, for example, who has done some acting and theatre work, said our little 8th grade play sparked her life-long interest in acting. Another admitted she too felt the acting bug as a result of the play, but her parents persuaded her not to pursue it. She had no regrets about her career choice, however, because she found a way to put acting skills to use in her professional life. A lovely realization, I’d say.

One woman asked Mr. P — quite earnestly — whether we spent the entire year working on the play, as that was her recollection. Mr. P laughed and assured us the play wasn’t the only thing we did that year — it was simply the culmination of a unit about the Gilded Age. Though embarrassed that her memory of the class was rather skewed, she said Mr. P’s class was the first time she felt smart and good about herself. Not a bad legacy…

As for me, my fondness for the class is demonstrated by the fact that the play is one of the few things from high school that I kept a copy of. Not only that, a few years ago I scanned it for posterity. Beyond that, what I admired about Mr. P was his creativity and enthusiasm. What I didn’t realize until I reflected on that call the past few days was the most powerful thing I took away from Mr. P: the belief that if you share yourself and your interests genuinely, it’s possible to spark others’ desire to learn and think.

Toward the end of the call Mr. P reflected a bit on his approach to teaching — and to life. He kind of summed it up saying that he was always guided by a quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story, The Favorite Boy. Then, with all the charm and panache he mesmerized us with so many years ago, he recited — from memory — this quote:

“It isn’t given to us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world…”.

I suspect my classmates on last week’s call would agree that we were wide open in 8th grade and very lucky to have had Mr. P, as his light touch inspired our learning and our lives.

©️2025 Ingrid Sapona

On being … a reminder about perspective

By Ingrid Sapona 

I took up lawn bowling this summer. Besides being fun, it’s reminded me of a few life lessons I hadn’t focused on in a long time. 

Lawn bowling is played on a grass field that’s divided into “rinks” that are 14 feet wide by about 120 feet long. The balls (known as bowls) weigh 2-3 pounds and are about the size of a large grapefruit. They’re round, but they have a “bias”, which means they’re slightly weighted toward one side. As a result, when you roll a bowl, it curves a bit. The other key piece of equipment is a little white marker ball called the Jack; it’s about the size of a billiard ball, but a bit heavier. At the start of each end of play, a player rolls the Jack to the far end of the rink. The object of the game is basically for your team to end up with more bowls closer to the Jack than your opponents’ bowls. 

The skipper of each team stands at the far end, near the Jack. Teams take turns rolling their bowls. Before each roll, your skipper tells you whether they’d like you to aim for the Jack or try to knock out an opponent’s bowl. After you roll, your skipper signals how far your bowl is from the Jack. This information is meant to help you gauge how hard to roll your next bowl. If your previous bowl ended up in front of the Jack, you didn’t give it enough oomph and if it’s way behind, you should go easier on the next one. After each team has rolled all their bowls, the score for the end is determined. Games vary in length from 10-12 ends. 

When I started playing, I found it odd that after I bowled, my skipper signaled to me where my bowl ended up in relation to the Jack. My distance vision is good and unless there’s a bowl that’s directly in front of the Jack, I can see where my bowl ended up in relation to the Jack and to other bowls near by. Even odder was that when my skipper signaled the distance, I often couldn’t believe what they were saying versus what it looked like to me. I wondered if they were exaggerating the distance because I’m new. Maybe they thought I’d work harder at honing my bowling if they said my bowls were more off than I thought they were. 

Curious, I started paying closer attention to other bowlers’ shots and the distance the skippers signaled to them. Most of the time, regardless of who bowled, the skippers’ signals seemed way off from what it looked like to me from the far end of the rink. That made me feel better about my own bowling, but it had me wondering about my depth perception.

The skippers bowl last. When it’s their turn, those who have bowled swap places with the skippers. This provides an up-close opportunity to see where the bowls are in relation to the Jack and to each other. I’m usually quite surprised about which bowl is closest to the Jack – and how ones I’d swear are just a foot or so apart are actually not that close to each other. 

I found it so disconcerting that my perception of where the bowls land could be so off, I began asking fellow players how different arrays of bowls looked to them. I was reassured when I found that, from the vantage of 120 feet out, most of us agreed about the placement of the bowls vis-à-vis each other. That said, everyone is also quick to point out that things can look very different from far away than they might look when you get up close. (I guess that’s why the skippers stand at the Jack end – so they have a better view of the actual positioning of the array.) And, I’ve also noticed it that even when a group of bowlers are standing right over the Jack, there may still be disagreement about which bowl is closest. Thankfully, in those cases, there’s a straightforward way to settle the matter: a neutral arbiter – a tape measure! 

Now when I look down the field to get a sense of what’s what, I remind myself that what one sees is very much dependent on where you’re standing. And, before coming to a conclusion, you should take a closer look. While these insights clearly are applicable to lawn bowling, I kind of think they have a wider application … especially during these turbulent times. 

© 2025 Ingrid Sapona