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"Hello, Wilbur. How are you?"

"OK. J.D., I'd like you to meet my son, Stephen. He's studyin' English at UNH."

"How do you do?" he said as he extended his hand to shake mine. I mumbled a stunned "Hi."

With his characteristic close-lipped grin, my father said, "Well, where do you want the furniture?"

"Right up through the garage here, Wilbur. I think this is the best route."

As we were unloading the furniture and following J.D., I was furiously processing what was happening. I had read in several publications that J.D. did not grant interviews, the last contact with the press having been a short piece in the Claremont Daily Eagle in the early '60s. I remembered a professor at UNH saying that he was a recluse living up in western New Hampshire and rumored to have written many more books like Catcher in the Rye but not having published any of them. Slowly I clomped up the steps, holding one side of an upholstered easy chair, furtively sneaking glances at the lanky figure leading the way. Every now and then I would look at my father, and I knew he was pleased with the shock I was feeling; yet I could not see anything to indicate his satisfaction other than a glint in his eye.

Having made three trips with the furniture and depositing the pieces in various parts of the large central living room, we paused, the three of us, and my father said, "Steve likes your books. He wants to be an English teacher."

Turning to me and smiling, "Oh, that's nice. Would you like a beer? Wilbur? Steve?"

"Yes, thank you," said my father before I could open my usually well-oiled mouth.

"Thanks," I nodded weakly.

As J.D. disappeared into the kitchen, my father busied himself with arranging the furniture. I gazed around the space, which reminded me of the Boy Scout lodge at Camp Carpenter in Manchester, where I had spent several summers. I tried to etch every detail into my brain, most of which, of course, have long since vanished. This is J.D. Salinger's living room, I thought. The more I can remember of this encounter the better chance I will have to someday be the great writer he is.

J.D. re-emerged with three bottles of beer of a forgotten brand, further evidence of my foolish attempt to record it all. My father immediately walked over to J.D., my signal to approach as well. I was now less than two feet from a genius, I thought. Can he read my thoughts? Will he suspect that I am a phony like Holden, pretending to be cool but yearning for fame and fortune? We all took a swig. "That hits the spot," my father said. "Sure does," said J.D. I nodded again, trying not to let the phoniness show.

"Here, come out onto the deck." We followed J.D. The grand expanse of the Connecticut Valley opened up with the ever-present Mount Ascutney dominating the southern prospect. "It's a never-ending view," said our host. Now begins my literary career, I thought. Just hold these words, exact order, exact tone—they will come in handy when you write your Great American Novel.

He slowly dropped his gaze over the trees and bushes surrounding his house. "Yeah, I didn't know whether to go for the wild look or the manicured look here." I was waiting for the big cosmic connection in the next utterance. The house had to be a microcosm of the macrocosm—the synthesis of man and nature that Holden was yearning for—yes, yes, that's it.... J.D. continued gazing out at the valley, as did my father. I had the first two chapters already written, I was convinced. Boy, would my English profs, Lew Goffe and Michael DePorte ever be impressed with me!

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