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.”
I finished a mystery I was reading on Friday; I have unlimited respect for Louise Penny and her work. Her characters are like friends I rely on for humor, sanity, intelligence, integrity, and compassion. The most recent novel’s written with her usual deft ability to lure readers back to a world they’ve visited for twenty books. The plots can be heart-stopping, sometimes heartbreaking, but there’s comfort that somehow, all will be well in the end. This time was no exception except that The Grey Wolf ventured a little too close to a reality that frequently costs me sleep and peace of mind. Maybe because a lot of the current real world exhibits very little humor, sanity, intelligence, integrity, and compassion.
After finishing Penny’s book, I looked forward to a very different novel for my next selection, the fifth in a historical fantasy/supernatural series, Deborah Harkness’s The Black Bird Oracle. I was racing through it before it came to a natural stopping place at my bedtime. I fell asleep easily, but the last section I’d read made its vivid way into my dreams with its concept of “bottled memories.” Literally, a human (or ghost, or witch, or vampire, etc.) can choose to pour their memories into a bottle and seal them inside before…well, whatever comes next.
Very glad I followed the recommendation of a commenter to an article about Quincy Jones and read this autobiography. I settled with my iPad and read it as an e-book before bed every night, spellbound by the life this man led. He worked with everybody! I learned so much, not just about him, but about music and music history, ranging from classical composers to hip hop.
This is the book I was coloring from. I’ll share those I’ve finished as part of my Sunday Sundries post tomorrow. I did my first from this book in 2020, and I haven’t removed any of them to put in my sketchbook. I’ll explain why in tomorrow’s post. A unicorn’s always worth the wait.
