Tiny Tuesday!


Here it is, the last thing from my “paisley memory bottle.” Just a tiny button. I used to see this phrase as a bumper sticker a lot, and the play on words made me laugh. I admit: I don’t much laugh about it anymore.

A simple definition of dogma: a fixed belief or set of beliefs that people are expected to accept or willing to accept without any doubts.

A simple definition of karma: the result of a person’s actions as well as the actions themselves; a term about the cycle of cause and effect.

I have no letter I wish to or intend to write to anyone specific because of it.

It isn’t because I have nothing to say. I’m rarely without words and thoughts.

It isn’t because I’m afraid to or reluctant to speak, though I admittedly lean toward being risk-averse and non-confrontational.

Simply put, I have finite energy for people who have already: mislabeled me because of their dogma. Lied to me and about me because of their dogma. Betrayed me because of their dogma. Backstabbed me because of their dogma. Hurt me because of their dogma. Enabled others to do any of those things to me because of their dogma.

I’m a flawed person who’s had my share of making mistakes and acting in dumb, sometimes hurtful ways. I’m also on a lifelong journey of learning better, knowing better, being better, doing better. Even without my words, I hope my actions speak for me.

I don’t deny the dogmatic the space and grace to be who they are and believe what they choose. Their dogma: their karma.

My actions: my karma.

That button’s not so tiny after all.


Peace–Becky

Keep on truckin’…

“Dear Three-Sport Letterman: Despite that it all ended, I have good memories of you and the times we were together. I always thought you were one of the smartest people I’d ever known. You were very Southern: good manners, slow talking, love of sports, wry humor, easygoing. I remember every one of the cars and trucks we rode in along the way, and I knew exactly when we made a wrong turn even as we took it. I tried to warn you. Tried to persuade you to take a different road. But you knew where you wanted to be, so I tried to find a place for myself there with you. But most of the time I felt smothered by all that came with that place, and as time passed, my discontent grew. No matter how I tried to adjust, or how right a choice it was for you, it never was right for me. It never could have been.

I regret any pain that I caused you, but we were young and resilient, and you showed all signs of a quick recovery. I remember the last time I saw you in person. My father had died and you came to the funeral home. That meant everything to me, and I was glad to meet your wife and first son. Then you came with another of our friends to Daddy’s graveside service, and that, too, was a touching surprise. Daddy thought a lot of the two of you, both as boys and young men.

If I think about it, I’m saddened that the final time we spoke–(by phone–your mother had asked me to call you and share some news with you)–one of the last things you said, maybe meant to be a joke?–was a little hurtful. In all the years after our parting, I’ve tried to say only kind things about you or to you.

I do think some things have changed, and you and I probably aren’t as likeminded as we once were. It happens. Instead of regretting that or anything else, I’ll share a photo you once took of me when we were young and goofing around with the new camera I’d gotten from Bruce and April for high school graduation. You’re in the photos on the wall behind me. May you choose to remember the days we were young and I smiled at you. Thank you for everything we learned together before we went our separate ways. ‘Just Passin’ thru,’–Becky.”

Sunday Sundries, part 2

Publishing this on March 31, a day after I should have. The photo of a salmon tie is one I found online. I don’t remember what the original salmon tie looked like, nor do I really care. I’ve probably given one or two as gifts since the one I once gave “Pinocchio.” This one is meant to be a representation of his.

When I think of salmon, though I’ve never had an in-person view of them swimming upstream, photos and art have led me to imagine the sight more similar to another tie, an old one of Tom’s. When I decided to write this letter, I used Tom’s tie as the backdrop for one of my One Word Art paintings I chose never to sell: Seek (acrylic and glitter on 4×6 canvas, 1997).

“Dear Pinocchio: After our ending, when I tried to break down not so much the pathology of your dishonesty as the way I so easily let myself believe you, I came to conclusions I shared with you later over dinner in a restaurant. (I’d stopped having any private meetings with you for several sound reasons. It’s possible this was the last time I ever saw you.) I’d stopped wanting to exhume or examine all of your lies. I no longer had faith that you would, or maybe even could, admit your culpability and how manipulative it all was. Possibly it was only human nature for you to ascribe the best of motives to your bad habit. I’m no psychologist, but why wouldn’t your compulsion to lie to others also enable you to lie to yourself?

It wasn’t my problem then and still isn’t. My problem was making sure I was rigorously honest with myself, about myself, what behaviors I should have identified, and what I could have done differently, so I wouldn’t make the same mistakes or choices again. Ever.

I remember you listened to my assessment of certain of your qualities that reminded me of other people and made you attractive to me or drew me to you. Of outside events that left me vulnerable to your dishonesty. Of my anxiety about the future that had once made you seem like someone stable who offered me a brighter future. That maybe you were even similar to a character or life I once wrote or imagined before I ever met you.

Instead of hearing the accusation and blame I was directing toward myself, not you, you finally said, ‘Maybe this is how you need to rewrite history, but none of what you say is true.’ Possibly, you were judging me by the purposeful lies that guided your own behaviors. Again, however, I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about me. You were the liar who couldn’t recognize when a person was trying to tell the truth to herself about herself. Possibly you thought so little of my wisdom because I’d shown so little of it.

I always say I write fiction, not memoir. But I gave some of the details of events in our past to a character in one of my novels. She wasn’t a main character, and her decisions were much better than any I ever made. I wrote her not because she was like me or because I ever behaved as well as she did. I wrote her as a reminder to myself of how I wish I’d been; how I wish I’d behaved. I gave her all the dignity and strength I didn’t show in my situation with you. Her story reminded me that I always have choices; that I want to make good ones instead of poor ones. I haven’t always lived up to her example, but she’s still like a really smart friend. And I’d rather think of her than berate the person I was way back then.

As for you, I rarely think about you or the other characters in your story. Besides the novel mentioned above, I never consciously include(d) you in any other stories, poems, or lyrics I’ve written. Though you have shown up in a few posts on this site. Peace out–Becky.”

Time in a bottle, or…a packet

Publishing this on March 31, two days later than I should have. I’ve been pleasantly distracted by family meals, conversations, and activities with guests from out of town. Even on schedule, I knew I’d run out of enough days in a single week to post all the items I showed from my paisley memory bottle. I’m continuing into this week along with whatever else I decide to post. This one explains the mustard packet pictured on the upper right of the photo.

When I was looking through my photo album for pictures from that time to refresh my memory, I found a photo from another birthday, this one at the location where I taught. My students got a cake to surprise me. (There were no grades, no pass or fail, in this program. It was an unselfish gesture on their part. They were lovely humans with a range of ages, genders, races, and life situations.) Apparently back then, I wore a lot of blazers, and this outfit included a tan one along with a light brown shirt and a coffee-colored scarf. My haircut was the unsuccessful result of someone trying to feather layers around my face. What can I say; it was the times.


Another from work, this time wearing an off-white blazer and vest with a brown shirt that looks like it has some kind of floral pattern, finished off with dark brown pants. This outfit is similar to the one in the next photo. I was probably wearing brown pants in it, too.


I’m in the driver’s seat of my Monte Carlo (it was a swivel seat marketed as providing ease for exiting the car, I think). I believe I’m sitting in my car outside a business I frequented at that time, where I got to know some of the people who worked there. Any one of them, and maybe even Lynne, could have shot the photo. Somewhere in my writing archives, I have a poem written to that group of employees. I will spare you that, at least.

The employees were always really nice, professional, and they all had great senses of humor. They didn’t become friends so much as friendly conversationalists. When I went by there one day, one of them (he wasn’t working; just hanging out) said he could use someone to talk to and asked if I wanted to take a drive with him. It was obvious his coworkers weren’t worried about me and thought it might be of some benefit to him, so I said sure. When I tell you I got into the passenger seat of his WHITE PANEL VAN and the two of us headed up the nearby mountain to a REMOTE spot, it sounds like the beginning of a terrible documentary with an outcome that wouldn’t bode well for me. But I was never a heedless risk taker, and I promise I had the discernment and maturity to assess whether I was likely to be the victim of a sociopath with bad intentions. I’d had many occasions to get to know him. He wasn’t a threat.

In fact, HE was the one in trouble. Sometime before this day, he’d been with friends (not his coworkers) and thought it might be interesting or enlightening to drop acid (in case this is too long before your time or outside your interest set, it means he took the illegal substance LSD, aka the psychedelic drug lysergic acid diethylamide). His account of how badly it went can be summarized in some quotes from my Internet search: “users [can] experience panic, confusion, sadness, and scary images. Bad reactions can happen with the first use and a user may have flashbacks later, experiencing the feelings of a bad trip even after the drug wears off.”

I don’t know how long we rode in the van or parked on the mountain to look at the serene scenery, or how long he talked, but I fully knew I was in way over my head on this subject (I never dropped acid, though I had friends and acquaintances who did). I was meant to be a listener, not an advisor, so that’s all I did. What finally broke his meandering stream-of-consciousness soliloquy was when he asked, “Do you smell mustard? Or is that just me,” as if this might be yet another strange symptom of a bad trip.

Once he mentioned it, I realized that I, too, smelled mustard, and we started trying to find its source. It turned out to be the seat of my pants. There’d been some kind of fabric, maybe a thin shop towel, on the passenger seat that I hadn’t moved when I sat down. Under it were several packets of mustard like you’d get at a fast-food place. The weight of a passenger had broken them open. Unfortunately, the mustard seeped through that thin fabric and onto the fabric of my brown pants. They were stained yellow and reeked of mustard.

The surprise of it shifted his focus. We laughed our way back down the mountain, hugged goodbye, and I drove home. A couple of days later, I stopped by the business to see if he was better. He wasn’t there. His work buddies told me his parents had checked him into some kind of facility so he could get professional counseling. Apparently, he ended up with a pretty severe diagnosis and a long hospitalization. Here’s my letter to him.

“Gentle and good soul: I never saw you again after the day of our drive and have no idea how things turned out. I can only hope it had a good outcome, that you got the assistance you needed to unravel it all and manage the after-effects. Even now, decades later, when I see mustard packets, I silently send good thoughts your way, wherever you are. You always deserved all the best–Becky.”

Ghost


“Dear Mystery Man: We became friends in the summer of 1981 when we worked at the same place. The ex I wrote about on my birthday a couple of days ago also worked there. In fact, the three of us, all students at Bama, became friends. When he was robbed at gunpoint in our workplace one night, we starting hanging out there during one another’s shifts so nobody felt alone and vulnerable. One Thanksgiving, I was going to make us all a big holiday dinner, and for some weird reason, I developed excruciating pain in my right elbow. The two of you got in the kitchen with me and let me give you orders on what physical labor needed doing and how to do it. We worked well together there, just as we did at the business where we met.

In time, the friendship between the two of you faded, but you and I stayed close, especially after something bad happened with you. You ended up dropping out of school and moving north to where your parents were living at the time. That’s when we began our writing correspondence. We were both avid readers and letter writers. You one time told me, ‘You make the best analogies in your writing that I’ve ever read.’ From you, that compliment was high praise.

You became a sportswriter and moved to a city where I’d previously lived for a while with my mother after my father died. My nephew and his mother still lived there. My nephew was a teenager then, and he liked sports, so one time when I was there to visit him and his mom, you took him and me to a basketball game you were covering. I think he had fun, and I was just happy to spend time with my him and my buddy.

We lived about three hours apart, but we no longer wrote letters. We talked on the phone. We were still doing that the year I married Tom. One night you and I were talking and something prompted me to ask you if you wanted to come spend a couple of days with us. You seemed to have something on your mind that was bothering you. You accepted the invitation, so Tom and I got the guest room ready, bought groceries and whatever else we might need for meals and snacks, and waited. And waited. And waited.

You never showed. I called and left messages on your machine. You didn’t return them. I knew your parents’ names and where they lived (another state), and your brother’s name (and had a vague sense of where he lived, yet another state), but I didn’t want to hunt you down. I figured you had a good reason for the silence and you knew how to reach me when you were ready to talk.

You never made that call before Tom and I moved to Houston. I never heard from you again. We didn’t have the term ‘ghosting’ yet, but you ghosted me. Once the Internet came along, I tried to find details about you that way. I was never sure whether I’d reach out if I did find you, but probably not. I’d be reassured knowing you’re out there, doing okay, living your life. Unfortunately, you share a name with an actor who was once on a popular TV series, and I got tired of always seeing his photo and details in my searches.

Through the years, I’ve found variations of your name on decades of obituaries and always breathe with relief when those names are never you. My own online presence, social media, publishing, etc., are all under the name you’d recognize. You’ve always been able to find me if you wanted to. In case you ever do find this, leave the comment. Send the email. There’s even a PO box connected to my author name if you want to write another of your excellent letters. I don’t want to reproach you or bitch at you or demand answers. A hello, how are you, I’m fine–I’d be great with that.–Becky”

It’s a happy Thursday

We’re all delighted to see our brother David, who hasn’t visited since 2018. We had a light lunch and lots of conversation, and now I think there’s some napping going on before dinner. (I have a roast with potatoes and carrots almost ready, and a squash casserole baking. All I’ll need to do is steam fresh broccoli and then warm rolls and bread for the bread basket.)

This happy reunion has me in a mellow mood, so today I’m writing letters to a couple of men who were in my (second) high school as well as being at Bama at least part of the time I was. They’re both special friends from my history, and over the last decade, we sporadically reconnected thanks to email, maybe Facebook, this site, etc.

“Dear guitar-playing, baseball-loving, tea-drinking friend with the sharp mind and clear-eyed yet compassionate view of human nature: You might wonder how you’re connected to a photo of a bunch of anniversary cards. I can’t remember if we ever talked about this, so forgive me if I repeat myself, but among the stories you reminded me of from our youth, you shared one about how you and another friend once made me cry when teasing me after I wrecked my father’s car. In the school parking lot after school in the late afternoon. When it was a small car, a huge parking lot, and the large car I hit was probably the only other one there. I was practice driving, learning to shift Daddy’s four-speed, when it started raining. I had no experience driving in the rain, looked down to find the windshield wiper knob, and–BOOM!

The thing is, if someone had asked me to tell a story about you from high school, it wouldn’t have been that one (or the bird at graduation). I didn’t even remember being made to cry. Instead, I’d have reminisced about a school day when you and another friend–possibly the one you were referring to in the car story–planned something sweet for me and The Boyfriend our senior year. It was our first anniversary of going steady. The two of you had gotten a bakery cake, assembled friends and cake in the lunch room (I think), and went looking for us to surprise us. I guess maybe you found The Boyfriend, but I’d gone to the printer in the ‘city’ a few miles away to deliver or look at proofs for the next edition of our high school paper. By the time I made it back to school, the effort to fete us had fizzled out. As I walked from the (dreaded) parking lot to the building, you met me. With an exasperated expression, you muttered, ‘You’d fuck up a free meal.’ I had no idea what you were talking about, and was SO sorry that I’d ruined the surprise when I found out. It was a really fun and nice thing to do. I’ll apologize again all these years later, but mostly, I want to thank you for giving me that phrase. You can’t imagine how many times through the decades I’ve been able to tell someone, ‘You’d fuck up a free meal.’

You were a regular commenter here for a while and I loved your stories, including all the ones that had nothing to do with me. I appreciated the glimpses into your world. I think things tapered off when you retired. I sort of picture you as a Jimmy Carter personality. Retirement simply gave you more time and energy to do things that felt meaningful to you and are good for humanity and your family. I do know you were around when I experienced a family tragedy and a few other occasional rough times circa 2011 to 2017. You were present when I needed you most, and more than a few times, I’ve gone back and reread your comments. They still resonate and help me. I know I’m not the only one in your life who’s able to say that. Thank you. You’ll always be a friend of mine, heart and soul.–Becky”


“Dear…honestly, I’m not sure how to summarize you or how to help you recognize yourself. Will you remember the time you and…our most mutual connection…were riding around and spotted me on University Boulevard heading toward town? Kathy was driving the car I was in, and we saw you, too. We all waved. Then you said to your driver, ‘I think Kathy’s a bad influence on Becky.’ At that point, the light turned green, Kathy hit the accelerator hard, and her tires squealed as we left you two in the dust. Without a pause, you said, ‘Let that punctuate my remarks.’ When he told us the story later, and I told her, we laughed our asses off, and we both still occasionally repeat it when we reminisce. We have several favorite quotes from you. Your wit and intelligence were two of many things that made me adore and admire you. I know that from time to time, there were bad moments between us. In fact, after we reconnected, you once said to me (I’m paraphrasing), ‘I think in the past, I said some very cruel things to you, and maybe I should apologize.’ And I answered, ‘No. I don’t remember anything like that.’ So here’s my confession. I did remember. I do remember. Your words did hurt me, because your opinion mattered to me. But it was long ago, and it doesn’t hurt me now. You helped me grow up. If you do need forgiveness, then know it’s been there for decades. Also, I hope what I’m about to say makes you laugh. One of the things I thought when you tried to apologize was, Yes, I remember. But what if I’m remembering the wrong things? What if there are more, maybe even worse things that I’ve blessedly forgotten? Let’s let sleeping dogs lie. My friend, I still admire you, and I’m sure I’d still find you adorable if we ever saw each other. As far as I’m concerned, it’s only good vibes between you and me. Did we, such fierce Scrabble® opponents, ever try playing Words With Friends™? Affectionately–Becky.”

The time I moved the dial for future improved birthdays

I’ve spoken on here before about how I was once in an emotionally and physically abusive relationship. It’s not anything I’m proud of, but I’m not ashamed of it, either. You don’t go into a relationship knowing it will happen. When the situation becomes apparent, in my case, slowly, and then chronically, getting free can be complicated and filled with risks.

I think in the context I’ve discussed it previously (here, I mean), once was because I knew someone else who read here still struggled with her memories on the same topic (the dial comes with added features like guilt and self-blame). The other was because someone I trusted, who sometimes showed a tendency to criticize me under the guise of humor, once directed hauntingly familiar language from my former abuser at me during a conversation. I unplugged that “friendship.” I don’t need to learn a uniquely hard lesson more than once.

I’ve never used the abuser’s name on this site. I never will. To be clear, this was not my first husband, who was a good human being, as a number of people (including family members) who visit this site can confirm. This was my first post-divorce relationship. There’s no connection between the abuser and anyone else in my life.

Today’s my birthday. I’ve received texts and messages from across the States, north to south, east to west, and (so far) two European countries. I never take friendship, love, and kindness for granted. The distance I’ve traveled since that bad relationship, including geographical along with emotional and mental distance, are compelling reasons to be grateful for everyone and everything good in my life.

Today’s paisley letter harks back to a long-ago birthday when I was with the abuser. I’m writing this letter to my younger self. I have nothing to say to him.

“Dear Becky, it’s okay to remember the good things you saw when you met him. He was hardworking, sometimes holding down two or three jobs simultaneously (so were you at that time), to put himself through college in your small town. He lived very simply, frugally, to be able to afford tuition, rent, and the books he needed for his classes. He could be funny. He was smart. He was even handsome. He shared some of your musical interests, and when times were a little easier financially, you saw good concerts together.

He transferred to your alma mater (about a three-hour drive away), and you’d visit him there sometimes. It reminded you how much you missed Tuscaloosa. You still had friends there. After your divorce, you’d floated other possibilities (for places to move, careers to pursue) for your own future, some that included friends, but those didn’t pan out. You applied to graduate school, got accepted, and you moved to Tuscaloosa and shared an apartment with him.

There’s no reason to go into grim details about how the relationship devolved. It lasted longer than it should have. You made a lot of concessions and put in a lot of effort to keep things going and to remove pressures. You altered your behaviors around his temper and your fear. You made sacrifices you shouldn’t have, but you long ago realized that hindsight and regrets can be traps, too.

Some good things happened. Your parents sold their house in your small town and moved to Tuscaloosa for a while. The city was full of happy memories for them (your brother and sister were born there while your father was in college). Some of their old friends still lived there. Your brother also moved to Tuscaloosa. You didn’t feel so isolated.

And then… you had a birthday. He didn’t say a thing that morning. He never handed you a card, or even the simplest of gifts like a flower or cupcake. You had an all-day meeting and told yourself he had something planned for the night. Nope. The birthday was never mentioned or acknowledged in any way… Except by your family.

You made changes slowly and carefully. You had options and relied on them. A friend you met in graduate school wanted to rent a small house and invited you to be her roommate. A woman you met at a place where you worked became a friend and mentor. Later, Debbie, your old roommate from your undergraduate years, who was working on her doctorate, made her place available to you as needed.

The leaving process wasn’t easy, and you never knew when there might be an explosion. Even when you finally lived separately, he was always a presence. Then he graduated and got a job in a different Alabama town (close to where you’d first met him). He finally seemed happier, more in control of his moods. Of his anger. One weekend, you agreed to visit him there and shop with him to help pick out things for his apartment. He bought drapes that day to hang in his living room. You offered to iron out the wrinkles, and you set up the ironing board near the living room windows.


That’s what you were doing when something triggered him, and the verbal abuse started. It seemed to go on forever, and you knew sooner or later, it would become physical. You kept ironing. Then you looked at the iron and you realized it could actually be an effective weapon. It was hot, had weight, and was in your hands, not his. You had the briefest vision of slamming the hot iron against him.

You turned the dial to off. You went into the other room, where your overnight bag was still packed. You found your keys and walked through the living room with purse and luggage. All you said was, “Goodbye.” It’s easy to remember the fear you felt when you walked out the door and to your car. You kept expecting him to come up behind you, to grab you, but you had one thing in your favor. He didn’t believe you were strong enough to leave. You were.

It was over. Sometimes he’d show up in Tuscaloosa at the place you now shared with Debbie, but you’d learned the hard way never to let him inside. You’d sit on the front porch, in full view of the elderly next door neighbor, who always seemed to be outside on those days. On one of those surprise visits, he left a small box with you before he went to his car.


They were similar to these. You never wore them. Not even once. Several years later, in fact, the same year you married Tom in June, you inexplicably packed the earrings when you drove your widowed mother north to your sister’s third wedding in December. (Debby always managed to stay one marriage ahead of you.) She needed ‘something borrowed’ to wear. You offered the earrings. The two of you laughingly agreed there was no ‘curse’ on them.

On her honeymoon, she took off the earrings and left them next to the bathroom sink. Then she forgot them when they checked out. For the sake of someone from hotel housekeeping, you hoped they really weren’t cursed. The earrings had no value to you at all. You never regretted their disappearance. As always, someone in your family did you a solid.

And no matter what struggles might have gone on in your life, even losses of people and pets you loved and cherished, you’ve never again had a miserable birthday.”

Tiny Tuesday!


Small stack of letters. Big feelings.

As the Internet grew from infancy to its ‘tween then adult years, I participated in various sites that came to be known as social media. Facebook, where I went inactive on 2016 for several reasons. Twitter, where I did the same in 2022. After all, I’ve had my own site since 2006, starting on LiveJournal before I migrated that content to this site in 2011. I’ve never been hard to find. I’m always open to interacting with people here via comments. I have on occasion made some comments private because people crossed boundaries, whether of privacy (theirs or mine/my family’s) or courtesy. I’m minimally active on Instagram, but that’s tapered off quite a bit, too. I’m here. It’s enough. This site keeps me consistently writing something, or sharing photos. Every day’s like a letter: to myself or anyone who decides to stop by.

Long before there was an Internet, I was an avid correspondent. Old school. Pen to paper. Envelopes to address. Stamps to lick (grateful stamps no longer require that). I mostly hope all those letters were thrown away. I never hesitated to share an opinion or dole out advice (to be fair, I was often asked for advice, and I hadn’t yet developed the wisdom to know people generally want advice that validates what they already want to do). Regardless, I’m sure Current Becky would be exasperated/mortified by Know-It-All Becky. Would roll her eyes at Young Becky’s attempts at drama, wit, or wisdom. As an adult, did you ever see home movies of yourself made when you were a young child and think, Good grief. What an idiot. Show some dignity. I think that’s probably how I’d feel reading old letters I wrote. However, from THIS side of things? When people have told me I should throw away all the letters I received during those years, I resisted, even though I don’t reread them. They’re just there. Part of my history.

One time, I DID purge some letters, and damn if I didn’t start writing a story that could really have benefitted from still having letters written to me by a girl I met at camp when we were like…twelve? Because I was fictionalizing girls around that age from the same time period. It would have been nice to have a record of what occupied our brains, what trendy words or phrases we used, etc.

It made me hold on to the rest of them. Point being, if you wrote me (there were several of you, and you know who you are), I still have your letters. On my Sunday’s paisley image, there are two collections of letters–one near the top, and one closer to the bottom. Today, I’m writing the person who sent me that top stack of letters.

“Dear Correspondent, we were friends in high school. Not like hang out all the time, constantly together friends. We ran with the same group. After I left for college, several of us kept up through letters, including you and me. I think those letters deepened our friendship to the point that when I came home for summer that year, it seemed like we were better friends than maybe we were. It became confusing for me. I made some questionable choices. I was used to friendships where it was okay to make mistakes. Maybe it would become necessary to clear the air. To have hard or uncomfortable conversations. I trusted we had that kind of friendship. What I didn’t expect, as we neared summer’s end, was an abrupt vanishing act and your next message to me: Don’t call me. Don’t write.

DOOR SLAMMED. It was so unexpected that I tried to talk to you anyway. It didn’t happen. Instead, I went back to Tuscaloosa and became like the freaking Rime of the Ancient Mariner. I kept talking to my other friends about this. Speculating endlessly about WHY. As it turned out, that might have been okay. I learned when you’re in pain and confused or mystified, there are people who will listen as long as you need them to, and show you kindness, whereas other people can’t be bothered. I let those last “friendships” die quietly, but if a single one of those people had reached out to me, confused or hurt by my sudden silence, we could have fixed it.

You chose not to fix the silence that fell between us. A few years later, something bad happened to you. I called you to let you know I was thinking about you. You were nice to me and expressed appreciation for my call. (I hoped it wasn’t the painkillers talking.) It was only one conversation, but I was okay with letting it be. At least it was a better ending than the previous one.

Fast forward to 20-plus years later, you called me out of the blue. You left a message. I returned your call. I hoped maybe I’d finally get the answer to WHY? So I asked. You first said you didn’t remember, but later, your recall seemed to be pretty good, just not really the WHY. Again, I was okay with letting it go. We’ve been grownups a long, long time, and moved on with our lives. Now, though we rarely have any contact, and I think we have very different opinions about some things, so what? Tucked in with those letters are some photos, including two of you from that summer. I still catch flashes of that boy who made me laugh. Who made me confused. Who made me feel special until…he didn’t. And I’m okay with that, too.

I’m glad you reached out. Glad we reconnected and continue occasionally to interact. Hope you’re doing well. Still have no plan to read those old letters. Unless I need you for a character I’m writing. Kidding! Maybe.–Becky”

Mindful Monday

A letter to the one who gave me the “going steady” ring shown on my Sunday Sundries post.

“Hello to you. That isn’t a photo of my ring, only a similar one. When I decided to write you, I went to get the ring you gave me when I was fifteen so I could make a photo. It wasn’t where it should have been. It wasn’t in the only other place it could have been. It makes me really sad that I can’t find it. It’s something I’ve cherished for decades.

I remember the first time I saw you. We were at school. Seventh grade for me. Eighth grade for you. You were with an eighth grade girl, your girlfriend, and she stopped to talk to me because she knew me from church. I was so shy and trying to navigate being in junior high, but I do remember thinking how nice both of you were to talk to me, a younger kid. Seventh graders were on the lowest rung of a school that had grades seven through twelve. My sister was a senior that year, maybe the first time we’d attended the same school.

In time, you and [name redacted] broke up, and maybe you had another girlfriend or two before you turned your attention on me. It was the way of things at that age–people pairing up and breaking up as we explored this boy-girl thing being modeled for us by older kids. It wasn’t too serious, and I don’t even remember when or why it ended. I didn’t have a broken heart as we both continued the dating rituals of two people who really didn’t understand we were still children.

The summer after eighth grade, Lynne and I were out one night ‘ratting the streets’ as my mother called it, when we ran into you and one of your guy friends. Somehow, over time, we coalesced into a group with several other people (including another of your friends, Riley). I don’t think any of us were ‘dating.’ Some of us were reading The Hobbit, and that’s when Riley began to refer to himself as Frodo and imagined adventures for all of us readers. In order for me to be eligible to go on summer night adventures with ‘hobbits,’ he changed Merry into a female. From then on, it remained one of his names for me.

I’m sure you and I flirted–everybody flirted with everyone. Over time, you and I became an official couple, definitely a while before my fifteenth birthday party at Lynne’s house. There’s a poster hanging on the wall of the room where I’m writing this, signed by all of you, yours in big sloping letters that say, ‘Love always’ and your name.

We began a kind of dance that would take us through at least three years together. We would break up, usually because some other girl caught your eye. Our friends couldn’t understand why I always agreed to get back together. It drove Riley nuts, and probably Lynne, too. I’m sure I cried plenty of tears over you–I was a moody teenager!–but I also knew this, even then. I preferred to go through an honest breakup than be cheated on and lied to. You gave me that much respect.

I’m not sure how many times that pattern repeated, but I remember at least two of your girlfriends contacted me. One said in a phone call, ‘He’s still hung up on you. He always talks about you. Please stay away from him.’ Which was funny, because by then, my parents had enrolled me in a different school (sophomore year, and yes, it was to get me away from you and friends they thought were a bad influence–I was really just being an adolescent girl) and I wasn’t old enough to drive, though you were. I had no way to pursue you, even if I’d been so inclined. I was going through a lot–I hadn’t wanted to change schools. I missed my friends, whose lives were going on without me. I missed you–you, Riley, Lynne, and I had been in the same English class the first six weeks of sophomore year before I transferred. I felt sick inside almost every day about the pending separation from all of you.

I was rebellious and unhappy in our new house, different small town, different school. So when you were between girlfriends and came to hang out with me, I was glad of the company. Another of your ex-girlfriends took me on a drive one night. She talked about how much she loved you and asked me how she could hang on to you. I seemed like the wrong person to advise her. As we were driving around–she was probably taking roads where she thought we might run into you–that actually happened. You and Riley ended up in your car behind us, and Riley said, ‘That’s Becky with [her name],’ and you argued there was no way; we didn’t know each other. When Riley told me this later, I asked how he could possibly have guessed I was in the passenger seat. ‘You propped your arm on the back of your seat and buried your hand in your hair. You always ride that way.’

Oh, that endless year. You came back. Left. Came back. Then there was a night I’ve written about on this site before, when Riley and his girlfriend took care of me after a football game when you stood me up. That wasn’t the last time I cried over you, but it was when I knew I had to make changes. I needed to accept that I had two more years before graduation. I needed to adapt to my new school, make friends, and find some kind of life for myself that wasn’t so lonely. (I must add here, because I think we’ve both been teachers at different times in our lives, that the teachers at my new school were the people who kept me from going crazy. I had some great ones.)

And so… you continued your serial girl-friending. And my junior year, I finally began dating someone else. Four years later I would marry him when we were college juniors. I’m not really sure when you married your first wife.

I remember the last time I saw you. It was maybe twenty years later, and Lynne, her son, and I were flying from Houston to Alabama for some family thing (her family). I was on my second marriage (to Tom–still married!), and I think you were divorced by then, but I can’t remember if you’d already remarried (I think you’re married now and assume she’s your second wife).

We were flying Southwest, and touched down in New Orleans for some people to disembark, others to board, before we resumed the flight to Birmingham. I looked up and saw you walking down the aisle toward me. Our eyes met. Yours widened. We both smiled. Seating was rearranged so that you and I could sit together for the flight. I can’t think of any way it could have gone better. We caught each other up. We talked about politics (we were aligned). I’m sure we talked about our jobs and shared details about our personal lives, but I can’t remember all the conversation. Just that I couldn’t have written one that made me happier. It was comfortable, friendly, sweet. I had then, and continue to have, only the greatest affection for you. You’re a good memory. I have so many visual memories of your expressions, the way you looked at me, the ways you made me feel special. I’m glad you were my first love. I hope you’ve been happy in your work (I think you’re retired now) and your personal life. I wish you all the best. Always.–Becky”