By 1955 Isaac Asimov was sufficiently well known, at least in science fiction circles, and his last name was so unusual, that his family members began to receive inquiries.

On July 22, I received a letter from Stanley telling me that he was virtually engaged to a divorcee with an eight-year-old son. On the thirty-first, Stanley was passing through Boston on his way to Annisquam and he stopped at our place. With him was Ruth, the young woman with whom he was in love.

She was a pleasant girl, with a ready smile, dark hair, and an unaffected way of talking. She had a slight stammer.

Apparently she was a science-fiction fan, and on first meeting Stanley, and having been introduced to him, she asked him what, in our family, we call The Question. That is: “Pardon me, but are you related in any way to Isaac Asimov?”

Stanley, who is the most patient and good-natured fellow in the world, takes the question with enormous goodwill (much more so than I would, were the situation reversed), but he had to admit that having it asked by a pretty girl in whom he took an instant interest was hard to take. Fortunately, he survived the shock and decided fairly quickly that this was the girl for him.

The most interesting occurrence of The Question, by the way, took place about now in New York. (I don’t know the exact date because I learned of the incident only long afterward from my mother, and she didn’t remember the statistics.)

After my parents sold the candy store, my mother decided to go to night school and learn how to write. She knew, of course, how to write Yiddish perfectly and Russian just as perfectly, but neither used the Latin script. She had to learn that to write English.

She learned quickly and in a very short time was able to send me short letters in painstakingly formed English writing. One of the teachers at the night school finally nerved himself to ask The Question.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Asimov,” he said, stopping her in the hall, “are you by any chance a relation of Isaac Asimov?”

My mother, who was four feet, ten inches tall, drew herself up to her full height and said, proudly, “Yes. He is my dear son.”

“Aha,” said the teacher, “no wonder you are such a good writer.”

“I beg your pardon,” said my mother, freezingly, “no wonder he is such a good writer.”

— In Joy Still Felt by Isaac Asimov