It began in 1971, first grade, my friendship with Amy. In my memory, she had a head of beautiful, long, thick hair; mine was short and stringy and if I dared to grow it long, it looked even stringier, if that were possible. We shared a love of horses and she had a pony; there was no room for a pony on our ¾ acre lot. Her mom was the Art teacher in school; I loved Art – I think the only time outside of PE we weren’t made to sit still, because you know, I was 7. She was smart; I wasn’t exactly in the top 10 percent, yet. And there was something about her that drew people to her; already at age 7, I was the proverbial wallflower. She doesn’t remember this, but Amy was popular – everyone liked her – and I liked her.
It was a sad day when she moved to Austin, a mere 60 miles up the road, the summer between our 3rd and 4th grade years. I missed my best friend.
We wrote to each other regularly, maybe even weekly. The US Postal Service our only viable way of
connection because long distance phone calls were too expensive, so said my
parents. I anxiously checked the mailbox
every day, waiting to hear from my friend.
Upon receiving the coveted letter addressed to me, with her return
address on it, I wrote back as quickly as I could. What exactly those letters contained, I can’t
say; I suppose at the age of 9 and being girls, bubble gum flavors and puppies
might have been among our favorite topics.
And boys. Maybe boys.
At some point (I don’t really know when), the frequency with
which we wrote lessened.
I remember visiting my sister when she was attending college
in Austin and passing an elementary school I envisioned Amy attending (though I knew her school was on the other side of town). I
remember being in college, at the same university as my sister, and thinking of
Amy as I passed that same elementary school.
Later in life, when I worked in Austin, my office just a few miles from
that same school, and I thought of Amy.
By the time I was in college, the letters had stopped. Here I was, in the same town where Amy
finished her childhood, she was a mere 30 minutes away in Georgetown. We both had the means to see each other, but
we were each in the process of finding our young adult selves. And so, we lost touch.
Fast forward to 2015.
I’m active on Facebook (way more than I should be!) and that excitement
that I felt going to the mailbox every day returns in a flash - in pops a
friend request from who else, but Amy! I
was shocked, thrilled, giddy, and I dare say, tears welled up in my eyes. We chatted here and there (she tells me she
never forgot me, I tell her I thought of her every year on our birthdays, which
are one day apart), and of course, kept up with current stuff through FB. But I want to know everything – since 1974 –
everything about her life. She’s back in
Austin (and has been for quite some time) and I’ve returned to our
hometown. Again, a mere 60 miles
separates us.
A few weeks ago, she says she’s coming for a visit! Her dad used to be the pastor at a small
church that is literally a block from my hairdresser’s shop. Amy is an English and Literature professor
and is authoring her next book, which begins with her time in the area. She wants to visit the church and asks if I
can meet her there. As luck would have
it, I had an upcoming appointment with my hairdresser and we arranged to meet
that same day. And so, it was set. After 44 years, we are about to be reunited.
As the day drew near, I got a little nervous. Maybe it was giddiness. Maybe it was excitement. But it was happening! I couldn’t believe it. I share my (low-level) anxiety with a mutual
friend, someone we went to elementary school with, who encourages that I am still
the person who, like when we were children, cherishes friendships fiercely and
Amy will see that.
When I arrive at the church, it is locked. I scan the parking lot and try to decide
which of these cars belongs to Amy, which one looks most like Amy. I decide none of them do. A quick text tells me she’s in the
office. I smile. But I’m shaking on the inside. This is happening! When we see each other, she interrupts her
conversation with the pastor and gives me a huge hug. She, her friend Caroline and I toured the
church grounds and spent a lot of time in the chapel. The parsonage, where Amy lived with her
family, has long since been torn down and replaced with something more modern
(circa 1980 or so); we stand on what we believe must have been the foundation
of her home and remember the trees, the view of the cemetery from her front
porch, and where she kept her pony. Everything
seemed much bigger back then.
We decide on lunch at a local comforty-food type of place in
New Braunfels. I ask if we should drive
by our old elementary school and excitedly, Amy says yes – though she doesn’t
remember the way. I drive the route our
bus used to take, in hopes that it will spark her memory and it does – she
remembers the old railroad track we used to cross under and the multitude of cement
plants/quarries along the way.
And the car they were traveling in – not Amy’s car at all;
it belonged to her friend Caroline.
Comal Elementary is now home to a Catholic High School. As luck would have it, school is out and
we’re able to roam the campus. We stood
in the parking lot, remembering the structure as we knew it in 1st
grade (or rather, as we tried to remember it) and the changes made to it
between our 1st and 2nd grade years when the radical
“open-concept” was introduced in public schools. The bus line has remained in place since we
were 7-year-olds making the huge step into the big yellow school bus. We stood on the playground and talked of the
death traps that came in the form of playground equipment back in the day and
the splinters which were embedded on various body parts thanks to them; the
merry go round and the jungle gym being our favorites, followed closely by the
see saw and swings.
We talked of the trauma of moving at the age of 9 and how another
teacher, rather than her own parents, was the one who told a very confused
little girl that she would be moving over the summer. Of course, we agreed, a lot had changed about
the school and naturally, everything looked “smaller” to us now.
Over lunch, we shared a small portion of our own life’s
highlight (lowlight?) reel. I had no
idea academia (as a profession) could be such a shark tank and my heart hurts
to know the struggles she had while taking care of her aging and ill
parents. My bumps and bruises came in
the form of past relationships. She
tells me she never forgot me. We
finished our time together with a trip to Naeglin’s Bakery – because – it’s
Naeglin’s (and if you’re ever in New Braunfels, it’s one of those things you simply
must do!). I left her with this: I wanted to share more with her – I wanted to
know more about her. What I meant was, I
want to get to know her again and know all about what’s made Amy who she is today,
and I want to reignite our friendship.
Her friend Caroline said she could see, just from a few
hours, why we were friends all those years ago.
We still have a lot in common, though in other ways, we’re very
different.
It was during a recent chat that I asked Amy more about her
mom, who passed just a couple of years ago (shortly after Amy found me on
Facebook). She shared with me, a manuscript
she’d written, an autobiographical piece which is not yet published. In 212 pages, she delves into a cherished
friendship, her career, her ancestry, time spent caring for her parents, then
grieving her mother’s and best friend’s passing, all woven together with her
own poetry. This gives me an even bigger
glimpse into a long-unanswered question:
who is Amy and what is she doing now?
If this is a teaching moment,
then I am the student; and I’m learning about my friend.
My friend, the English and Literature professor, the author,
has lit a passion in me for writing. One
that I felt as we corresponded throughout the years and one that I pursued in
the form of a Journalism degree. One
that I never really had an opportunity to use in my social work career. But one I was inspired by whenever I read a
John Grisham novel. "Just Write!" says Amy. And so I am. Together, she and John Grisham have
inspired me to begin my blog.
Love this post, Sharon. I'm so glad you are writing and that you are back in my life.
ReplyDeleteOMG!I love your writing and the fact that you two got back in touch! Hope you write more about your life adventures. -PTY
ReplyDeleteSuch an interesting blog! I'm so proud of you for taking that first step! I look forward to everything you plan to share with us.
ReplyDelete