“A friend has to give it to you.” ~ The Book of Sunshine

Three entries ago I mentioned a phone call and a voice from the past. I also promised to tell a story. Well, gather ’round, children. What you are about to read is true.

Once upon a time, a college student named Amy lived with us. In fact, if you search the ancient scrolls of this journal, one of the first few entries featured Amy and an incident with an eccentric individual who called himself Caveman. (It’s titled “Play Dem Bongos” for any curious, historical research types out there.) Now married and a mother of two, Amy called the other day just to talk. We enjoyed a pleasant chat about life as it is now. But after I hung up, a series of random memories floated to the surface of my mind. Stirred from the murky depths, most of them bobbed momentarily to view, then drifted away. But not Sunshine.

Ah, yes. Sunshine.

You’ll need just a little more background here. Amy was a biology major, so George taught quite a few of her classes. She assisted in the labs and, like many of George’s students, often visited our home. When her apartment burned down, we invited her to live in our empty upstairs room.

That was an eventful year for Amy. The apartment thing was a biggie, of course. But she also started dating Paul. Amy liked Paul a lot. A whole lot. So, it’s no surprise that Sunshine’s comment caught her attention.

Ah, yes. Sunshine. Tall, blonde, perky, and gorgeous — a Hollywood homecoming queen. And she was sweet. Truly, sincerely sweet. Sweet enough to give you tooth-ache, if you really want to know. But sincere about it. Sunshine attended Amy’s lab section. And one day, out of the blue, with no provocation, she made this startling remark. “I know the secret to getting engaged.”

Amy glanced up from a nearby microscope. “Are you serious?”

Sunshine’s big, blue, artless eyes revealed no trace of irony. “Yes, I really am. I know the secret. I tried it, and it worked. And I know someone else it worked for, too.”

Cynical voices shouted in Amy’s head, but curiosity shushed them. “Well? What is it?”

“Leopard-print underwear.”

Amy searched Sunshine’s face. No, she wasn’t kidding. “Leopard-print underwear?” She stifled a laugh. “How does it help you get engaged?”

Sunshine shrugged. “I don’t know how it works. But it does.”

Amy said, “Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.” She started to walk away, but Sunshine spoke again.

“There’s one more thing. A friend has to give it to you.”

“What?”

“You can’t buy the underwear for yourself. A friend has to give it to you.”

That evening Amy related this story, and we all laughed. Leopard-print underwear. Ha ha! What a hoot. Could Sunshine possibly believe it made a real difference? Ah, well. Have some more salad. No, please, you take it, I’ve had plenty . . .

Several months later, Amy celebrated a birthday. Her parents came to town, and we threw a little party. I grinned as Amy opened the present I’d bought. In the card I’d written only eight words. “A friend has to give it to you.”

Amy laughed. We all laughed. What silly, superstitious notions people embrace. But hey. If we can turn them to our amusement, that’s something, right?

A month later, Paul and Amy were engaged.

I’m just here to give you the facts, folks, not to explain ’em. Here. Have some more salad. No, please, you take it, I’ve had plenty . . .