I've Been Thinking

I've been pensive all week, traveling back in time in my mind, trying to formulate the words to tell you about "the big reunion" with my high school friend. I went to Houston last week and we spent two days and nights catching up on our lives over the past thirty-eight years. It was an emotionally exhausting experience for both of us, one I can't get off my mind. 

Let me say that seeing her was wonderful, but it did not play out as I had imagined it during the weeks leading up to the visit. During that time we had spent hours talking on the phone and texting one another; I became more anxious and excited as the visit approached. For reasons too tedious to go into here (they don't affect the story at all) I booked a room at a hotel near her house and we had our visit there. Here's a brief commercial for the Holiday Inn Priority Club: I booked a deluxe room so that we would have extra space. When I arrived, the clerk told me they were sold out for the night so, because I was a Priority Club member, they upgraded me to a suite. It was wonderful, with a living area, dining table and chairs and separate bedroom. I've lived in apartments smaller than this suite, so it worked out perfectly for us. Now back to the story. I called her when I checked in and, shortly thereafter, came the knock on the door. I thought I would be girly and giddy, squealing with delight, but when I opened the door, we both just stood there, looking at each other, buffering ourselves against the woosh of years flying by. "You look the same," she said.  "You don't," I replied. Then we laughed and hugged. 

We talked for hours, falling easily into a feeling of comfort and companionship. We talked of the people in our lives, weaving the past and present together to explain who we had become. It was gut-wrenching at times; life has dealt some hard blows to each of us, more to her than me I think. But here we were, survivors with a sense of humor. She went home at night to feed her dogs and sleep in her own bed, giving us some time to decompress and process what we'd heard. 

The next day we ventured out for lunch and later, to Starbucks to pick up a cappuccino for her in the drive through. "Stop!" she cried as I started to drive away. "I need a bunch of Splenda and a straw," forgetting that I didn't know that. I didn't know what she put in her cappuccino, but we both agreed that it felt like I should. We had reconnected so quickly and seamlessly that it was hard to believe almost forty years had passed, that I didn't know her favorite foods, drinks or personal obsessions. As we reflected, we remembered that we had not known each other all the way through high school. She had moved to Baytown during middle school and went to a different school from me. It wasn't until our Junior year, when we both were on the staff of the Gander Gazette newspaper, that we connected and remained best friends until we graduated. She and I were a little different than most of our peers. Both of us had an enormous degree of freedom and independence from our parents. Mine were divorced and I lived at home with my Dad and younger brother. My older sisters were already married and gone; she never met them. Her parents were on the verge of divorce and she had forged a level of independence necessary to survive. Even then I thought she was a warrior. She worked several jobs as well as giving private lessons to younger flute players, bought her own car and clothes and excelled at everything she put her mind to, except being organized. We laughed a lot about that, remembering everything she did was either at the last minute or late. The fact that neither of us had a "stable" home life, one where the mom and dad sat down with the family over dinner at night, where the kids had assigned chores and were guided in their endeavors by involved parents, somehow made us closer. We knew we were different from most of our friends and felt somehow that we were stronger and better prepared for life ahead of us. I think it was safe to say that, even in high school, neither of us believed in fairy tales.

So here I am, days after my return home, trying to assimilate it all. I found out that her brother has lived very near my brother all these years. Their sons have been in Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts together and go to the same school. She and I worked and lived near each other for years, liking the same restaurants and probably passing each other time after time, leading similar lives and never connecting. I keep thinking what it would have been like if we had kept our friendship after high school. Most likely our differences would have led us to drift apart -- I got married, she stayed single; I raised children, she didn't. Maybe the best solution is what has played out, two old women, both banged up and bruised by life but still kicking, reunite and recapture the love and friendship they always had and searched for during the intervening years. Sounds like a good novel, doesn't it? Maybe I'll add it to the list. 

So here's to you, A.K.L. You were my hero in high school and now you are again.  I know the years ahead of us will be filled with hours of talking, writing, laughing and drinking coffee. Hurry up and get well so you can come up here to visit me, meet Scottie, the dogs and the rest of my family and you and I can continue our journey.

Thanks for stopping by today. I'm deep in thought about another post and will be back here soon. 

 

Back in the Saddle . . . Maybe

Here I am, back, out of the blue. I've thought about doing it for weeks but got bogged down with wondering how I would explain why I haven't been posting, so I finally decided that I just wouldn't. Explain, that is. You'll just have to use your imaginations. I will say that nothing bad happened; I may have just needed a break.

Now the big question, what to write about. A lot has happened in the past few months, not just to me but to our nation. At some point I am going to write about how we are letting paranoia affect our lives, but right now, I'm going to write about something that recently happened to me. 

On a Sunday evening, about two weeks ago, our phone rang. Neither Scott or I recognized the caller ID, so we let it go to the answering machine. When the caller started talking, identifying herself, at first I was stunned. I mean, literally, mouth open, frozen in my tracks, stunned. I was holding my breath. Then my brain started to scream, "Answer the phone before she hangs up," and I did. The voice was one I had not heard in about 38 years -- my best friend from high school. She wasn't certain she had the right person; I'm babbling on the other end, "It's me, it's me." And then we laughed, and, when we laughed, I heard her. Gone were years of aging, hard times, disappointments and living with the consequences of the abuses and neglect we inflicted on ourselves. We were here in the photo, 1974-75, senior year as the Editor and Assistant Editor of the Gander Gazette, our high school newspaper. That's me, third from the right, and her, on my right, me wearing a trench coat and her a  hat, both chomping on cigars. This was our staff parody of hard-bitten newspaper men and women, although that guy on the far left looks more like a pimp. From what I remember, he acted more like a pimp (that coat was velvet,) but I digress.

 
That's our teacher on the far right end. It turns out that she was the reason my friend started looking for me. The teacher, Linda, had run into my friend's brother and asked about her. He gave Linda her contact information and she called. It turns out that she (Linda) left teaching and went to work for the State Department and has been with them for 30 years, living and working all over the world. During their conversation Linda asked about me and my friend told her we had lost touch right out of school. (Am I the only person who feels weird calling their teacher by her first name? I am trying to be adult about this.) That started my friend thinking and she went on a search for me, resulting in the phone call.

Now the reason I was so stunned by the call is that ever since I learned about Google, et al, I have repeatedly searched for her. I've kept up with one or two of my high school friends, but they had no news of her either, other than they thought she worked for Exxon after college. So when I heard that it was her on the phone, my old sentimental heart was bursting. I wanted to cry, but instead, I laughed. We both did. We laughed and talked, just like the years since we last did had not passed.

We talked about everything -- the obligatory "this is what has happened to me since I last saw you," politics, dogs, sex, the "old days" -- everything. We talked and laughed for over three hours, until our voices started giving out. Then we emailed and talked again this week. I'm planning to visit her in the next month or two so that we can reconnect even stronger. We hope to include the guy whose head is between the two of us in the photo. He was along for many of our adventures and was as excited as I was to hear that I had talked to her. 

I've thought about her every day since her first call. My internal soundtrack is running songs and movies from the 70's. She was a fabulous musician and her instrument was the flute. She was first chair, not only in our band, but in State competition. I can close my eyes and see her on stage. Scenes of other things we did keep flashing into memory. Our town opened its first Chinese restaurant while we were in school. I had never been to one before, but she had. We tried it out and she ordered egg rolls and because I didn't know anything on the menu, so did I.  In the years since then, every time I have eaten an egg roll, I have thought of her. We laughed about that, too. Turns out we both think Asian is our favorite ethnic food.

This whole experience has been so large for me that I had to just sit and think about it for a week or so before I could even begin to write about it. I had to wrap my head around narrowing it down to one blog; one that didn't sound like the ramblings of someone with dementia. I'm trying to keep my expectations about our future friendship in control, but it's hard. My head tells me, "Many years have passed. You are different people. Don't expect too much or you may be disappointed." But my heart knows that we were "friends of the bosom" in those days and I don't think that much has changed. 

I'll keep you posted on our progress and will also try to stay on the writing horse with other subjects. Either way, thanks for stopping by again.