Other Make a Difference Day celebs:
Writer Anchee Min on the value of education
Wally Lamb brings the expressiveness of writing to prison inmates
Bestselling author Matthew Klam is enriched by a handicapped child
Robert Putnam, writer of Bowling Alone, is optimistic toward youth
Mitch Albom, author of Tuesdays With Morrie, finds his late teacher's words live on.
Arthur author Marc Brown believes where kids read, kids help others
Marc Parent, Turning Stones author, makes a difference to a dying woman's cat.
Ana Castillo, poet and author, tells how a gathering replenishes women who make a difference.
Ann Hood, author of Ruby and the upcoming Do Not Go Gentle: My Search for Miracles in a Cynical Time, comforts the spirit by feeding the sad, the lost and the lonely.
Justin Timberlake makes a difference through music
Wish You Well writer David Baldacci, learns a lesson from young writers
Patricia Cornwell, writer of The Last Precinct recalls what a world-renowned evangelist did for a scared little girl

Open a door

Christopher Paul Curtis, author of Bud, Not Buddy, hails a hero he overlooked -- his dad.

I was 10 years old that Saturday in 1963. There was a knock at the door, and after I opened it I was surprised to see a group of five strange men standing there. I quickly slammed the door and ran to get my father. I'd been told many times before not to answer the door unless one of my parents had told me to, and now I understood why: These five men were without a doubt the first fifth of that famous "25 robbers at my door" from the old hide-and-seek rhyme, and I'd almost let them in!

In a semi-panic I mumbled and jumbled something to my father about a gang of burglars at the door, and he said, "Good. They're right on time." Much to my shock, Dad not only let them in but also shook all of their hands.

The men all worked at Fisher Body Plant No. 1 in Flint, Mich., with my father, and they sat where he told them to at our dining room table. Dad then passed out pencils and scrap paper and, from a box he'd brought home earlier that day, handed each of them a mimeographed sheet of paper with a series of math questions on it.

"We'll start with fractions," Dad said. "How to find the lowest common denominator ..."

The men came for three hours every Saturday, Sunday, Wednesday and Friday for the next two months.

Dad explained to me that the men had taken a test at the factory to be promoted to skilled trades and none had passed the math portion. This test was said to be the reason there was a minuscule percentage of African-American workers in any of the skilled trades at Fisher Body. Dad said he knew they could do the job if they were given a chance. I understood what my father was doing, but

it wasn't until many years later that I appreciated it.

I can still remember how, at that time, I had great admiration for these serious, quiet men. Drifting in and out of the dining room during those three-hour sessions, I saw their patience as they'd go over a problem time and time again. I saw they wanted these jobs so badly that they'd calmly listen to my father say for the hundredth time in the same encouraging tone he'd use with me and my brothers and sisters, "OK, you've just about got it ..." or "That's close, but you've got to remember to factor in ..."

My 10-year-old eyes saw the men's devotion to passing this test as heroic. And it was.

My older, more appreciative eyes see that if there was a King of Heroes he would be my father. In my awe of the hard-working men, I missed feeling awe for the person sacrificing time and labor to help them. In my admiration of these factory workers who wanted to learn so badly, I missed feeling awe of the factory worker who undertook the unbelievably difficult task of teaching higher math to students at that advanced age. In my awe of these men who wanted to improve their families' lives so much that they'd sacrifice hours of family time, I missed the beauty of the man who sacrificed his time to improve other people's lives. Now I see, now I appreciate.

I remember the absolute joy on my father's face when he came home from work and told my mother, "They all passed! They even want John to take the test again. They think he cheated somehow. He scored perfect on the math!"

Next week: Marc Parent, author of Turning Stones.

Photo by: SANTA FABIO for USA WEEKEND