September, 1955. The principal of P.S. 177, a Brooklyn elementary school, smiled amiably from the auditorium’s stage down at the 6th grade classes. He wished us a good school year and announced that students who had a perfect attendance record would receive a very special gift at the graduation ceremony in June. I paid close attention and did what I had to do. I instructed my body not to get sick for ten months. My body complied. By March, things looked good - no colds, no fevers. Then came a blizzard, well over a foot of snow. My aunt told me to stay home, but I refused, donned my galoshes and was out the door. I had to walk between massive piles of snow plowed by the Sanitation Department. Few students made the hard hazardous journey. So come graduation I was proud and excited. Only a few students were called to the stage by the principal. He praised us and then dramatically presented us with the “very special gift” - two pencils. Sixty-fours years later, I’m still that twelve-year-old kid in 1956. Two pencils!