The butterflies hit just as I was finishing my Caesar Salad and squash-stuffed pasta. My family raised their glasses of champagne in yet another toast and I discovered that I was on the brink of enjoying it all too much. I did not want to breathe garlic and alcohol into the face of Paul Auster as I introduced myself as "The Sssfissticated Lady." I needed to brush my teeth, suck tic tacs, apply make-up and gather my thoughts. We made plans to meet in the hotel lobby in one-half hour for the cab ride to Symphony Hall.

To leave the Allegro Hotel’s Italian restaurant I had two choices — a long cold walk outside to the main entrance, or a walk up an open staircase and across the length of the building to the main elevator. I chose the staircase, silently screaming as I good-legged-bad-legged my way up the 16 steps. My therapist would have been proud of me. By the time I reached my room, there wasn’t time for contemplation. I hurriedly changed my clothes, brushed my teeth, and watched in horror as my cosmetic bag fell into the toilet. I plunged my hand into the cold water and retrieved the dampened content. I sucked cinnamon tic tacs as I finished powdering my nose.

The famous entrance to Symphony Center was nowhere in sight. Our cab driver had dumped us on the dark side of the building. We observed a few people milling around in the dimly lit hallway so we assumed we were at the right place. The wind whistled through my thin raincoat and blew my carefully coifed hair into my face as we followed instructions to Please Use Other Door to the opposite end of the building. The only sounds were the piter-pat of Bekah’s boots and my cane tapping as we walked down the hallway. How I longed for a cane-silencer! Another elevator ride and we were on a balcony above the open rotunda. After we picked up our tickets at the door, we filed into the auditorium.

Chicago’s Symphony Chorus and Civic Orchestra often use Buntrock Hall for rehearsals. Unadorned and undecorated, the room reminded me of a high school gymnasium set up for graduation. Approximately 250 padded folding chairs were arranged in a semi-circle around the blue and yellow painted stage. On stage, two bright red easy chairs awaited the slim and famous posteriors of Paul Auster and Jacki Lyden. Hand microphones dangled languidly over each chair. At the front of the stage, a standing microphone, nestled close to a black reading stand, stood ready to transmit the readers’ stories. Lined up like seats for Roy Orbison’s back-up singers, were four folding chairs. I made note of the three narrow, steep steps I would be required to climb. I tried not to panic and cursed my inability to function without cane and handrail.

When we arrived in the room, Paul Auster was standing by the edge of the stage and I introduced myself. He greeted me warmly and told me that I was to be the first reader. Then, like Senior Yearbook Day, the other contributors, Freddie Levin, Ludlow Perry, and Eric Wynn, asked that I sign their books. As I looked around the room I thought I was at a Bible convention. Everyone in the room clutched their copy of, "I Thought My Father Was God." I had left mine at the hotel. Kathleen ran out in the hallway to buy me another so I could enter the realm of polite book-signing requests. Jacki Lyden introduced herself and informed us that she would be asking a few questions after the readings. I sat down with my family in the front row, avoiding eye contact with my three-stepped nemesis. Daniel Born, of Great Books and editor of The Common Review, introduced the program.

The interview lasted about a half hour. It was now Show Time! Balancing and leaning on my cane, I started my ascent, looking like Quasimodo on his way to the bell tower. The first step was almost impossible and I was afraid I wouldn’t make the next two until Paul Auster reached out his hand to assist me onto the stage. As I stood at the reading stand, abject fear prickled my scalp and constricted my breathing. I took a deep breath, smiled, and looked out into the crowd. I quickly focused on Kathleen, Mary, Paul and Bekah; all wearing proud Cheshire cat grins on their faces as they watched me. I began to read:

To my horror, my voice quavered like Tiny Tim singing Tip Toe Through The Tulips. The other three readers were excellent. We all sat on our padded folding chairs as Jacki Lyden interviewed us. I told them about our reminiscence writing class and how we were encouraged to write stories every week. One of the readers, Ludlow Perry, confessed that his name was fictional. He lives on the corner of Ludlow and Perry Streets in Dayton, Ohio. I made a mental note to use Bluff Stevens as a pen name . . .

The hour and a half interview was over. I carefully descended the three steps. I had survived. My family tried to assure me that I did not sound like Tiny Tim and seemed proud of "Old Mom." Paul Auster invited us to come with him to the balcony for the "book signing." I was surprised when well-wishers from the audience asked me to autograph their copies of the book. I wanted to ask, "Why?" Then, to my complete surprise, I settled comfortably and confidently into the spotlight. I answered their questions about my writing experiences, I asked each person their name (some were getting their book signed for friends and loved ones) and I scrawled a personal note for each person. I was flying so high I thought about throwing my cane over the railing. Kathleen and Mary were the photographers for the "photo-op" with Paul, Jacki, and the four readers. We said our good-byes and went about the business of cab-catching. I didn’t really need a cab. For one moment I thought I could fly back to the hotel.

I have simmered down since that night and have tried to forget the sound of my shaky and breathless voice and most of the stupid things I said during the interview. I was impressed that so many nice people came out into the cold Chicago night to listen to the stories and to buy the book. Their warm and friendly interest in the people who were the writers and storytellers made it an unforgettable experience.