In 1972 I attended a Kansas City all-girls school that didn't allow large hoop earrings or miniskirts, revered football games over politics, and "strongly discouraged"students from seeing a local theater performance of Hair. I was ripe for a book that would change my life.

I had never heard of James Thurber until The Last Flower arrived in the hands of a teacher, Art, our "visiting drama coach."Rumors flew around Art from the day he arrived—something about smoking lots of pot, then stockpiling canned goods at 2 a.m. These interesting oddities, along with the fact that he wore bell-bottoms, convinced me to audition for his production of The Thurber Carnival, a sort of greatest hits compilation of Thurber's works that lent themselves to the stage. I played some ingenue that Walter Mitty had the hots for, but what remains more significant in my memory is how the evening ended.

The Last Flower, with its antiwar message and "experimental" nature, blew the roof off our little auditorium. It left the audience hushed, then upset, shocked, exhilarated, but most definitely, affected.

The entire experience—from the bonding and hysteria of the rehearsals to the queasy thrill opening night, of knowing that our parents and friends in the audience had no idea what was in store for them—all of it added up to life-altering. The production was the culmination for me of weeks of accelerated personal expansion, as if I was making up for lost time. I have James Thurber to thank for making me see concerns beyond frosty lipstick and twin sets.