The last one to go

A very old friend of mine died a couple of weeks ago.  He was old in both senses of the word: he was 92 ½, and I had known him since the day I was born.  He was one of my father’s three oldest friends – they had known each other since 7th grade.  On the day I was born, Clifford and the other two old friends, Frank & Albert – both of whom died some time ago – brought a big, pale blue stuffed bear to the hospital.  My first gift, which I still have, though it is much flattened – has been restuffed more than once – and a faded gray.

A life-long bachelor, Clifford was a familiar figure throughout my childhood, but especially so once my father and stepmother settled in Ft. Worth, and so did Clifford, in a small house not far from theirs.  This quiet, mild-mannered man would often visit, occasionally staying for dinner, not infrequently joining us on family jaunts.  I remember being impressed by the snappy little MG he drove for a while, and amazed when I was visiting him once, and he proceeded to cook us a large steak in a big metal bowl.  As a bachelor, he could obviously do things in unconventional ways.

Clifford served as an Army photographer during World War II.  In the last few years I was privileged to see some of the photos he took in that capacity.  There were a number of bombed-out towns, the inhabitants standing and staring as the Americans rolled into town in their trucks and jeeps.  He told me that one photo, of a medic working over a fallen soldier in the field, was purely staged.  “The guy was already dead,” he said; “but they wanted me to take the picture for a story about the medics.” Like much of the photography done during the war, most of the pictures Clifford took were intended to bolster morale within the army (many of his pictures appeared in Stars and Stripes), and increase support for the war on the home front.

Though he worked as a surveyor for oil companies for much of his adult life – until he took early retirement, convinced he could make more money wisely managing his investments than working at a job -- Clifford never stopped taking pictures, until a couple of years ago, when his sight began failing him.  He also painted, and wrote a number of quite excellent short stories.  He was, in short, a very creative man, something I never realized until we became closer over the past ten years.  He was a perfect example of how little we may know someone we think we know very well.  And he was one of the few people in my life who was actively supportive of my writing.

Clifford and I had very different opinions on almost every subject.  Perhaps inevitably, given his generation, and where he grew up and lived virtually all his life (i.e., Texas), Clifford was extremely politically conservative, whereas I am your basic liberal.  Besides politics we argued about the Civil War (which Clifford insisted on referring to as the War of Northern Aggression), race, evolution, even music (we agreed about Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby, disagreed about the Beatles and Al Jolson).  But the nice thing was, we could have these vigorous disagreements, and still remain fond of one another.  It was refreshing to me to find a member of my parents’ generation who was willing to discuss all these different matters, and I think Clifford enjoyed having somebody to talk to!

And now that he is gone, my family has lost the last member of our own Greatest Generation.  Clifford Owen Bell, I and my brothers and sisters, who saw you as all-but-family, honor and salute you.  And we will miss you.

I went to a garden party...

This weekend I made the three-hour drive to Boston to attend the 60th birthday party of a friend whom I know from what I call my Boston days (1976 - 1995). I met David originally through his long-time partner -- now his husband, since the enlightened state of Massachusetts made that possible -- as Robert and I worked for the same organization. The three of us share a love of music, and attended numerous concerts together, including some in which Robert played (viola). Even now David brightens up my Facebook page with numerous links to opera singers singing their hearts out.

What's really shocking is that despite living only a three-hour drive apart for the past 6 1/2 years, we hadn't managed to see one another since 1999. On my part, I fear it's been this tremendous inertia that has pretty much kept me from going anyplace, at least by car. Is it aging, I ask myself, this aversion to driving? I made a trip to Pennsylvania in 2009, to attend the graduation from college of my goddaughter (see Note of May 24, 2009), and a trip to Binghamton, NY, in 2010, to attend the graduation from high school of the only son of one of my college roommates (Note of July 1, 2010); other than that, there was a trip to the same area in upstate New York for some genealogical research, a big interest of mine. Other than that I can't seem to make myself move.

As far as trips to Boston go, I've been down only three times in the past 6 1/2 years, twice at Christmas time, at the invitation of another friend from my Boston days, when the desire not to spend Christmas alone was sufficient motivation to get me moving. The other time was at the invitation of yet another friend, and I felt that weekend was hers, did not want to be running all over the Boston area seeing other people.

But to return to this weekend's party: it was a terrific party. There was lots of food (I thought the hors d'oeuvres were it, so was consuming great quantities of shrimp with cocktail sauce and spanakopita, when suddenly the barbeque arrived, followed by the vegetarian pizzas!), lots to drink (I had three Jesse James Bourbons on the rocks -- have you ever heard of Jesse James Bourbon? I certainly hadn't -- while most people were drinking one of the several kinds of beer available, white wine, or Margaritas), and lots of people, most of whom I didn't know, but with many of whom I spent at least a few minutes chatting. Despite being a basically shy and reserved person, I can do this fairly easily at a party; actually enjoy getting little capsule explanations of who people are, what they do, how they know so-and-so.

The most interesting conversation I had was with a second generation Cuban, whose parents came to Boston in the '50s, before the Communist takeover. His older brother was born in Cuba; he was born here. Said this country had been very good to his parents, and to himself; the American Dream busy getting realized.

I'd have to say the most unusual aspect of the party were all the little Shih Tzu running around underfoot. David raises these cute little dogs that look like walking dust mops for show & selling; a number of the people there knew him from having bought puppies from him. Fortunately, Shih Tzu don't usually bark -- my biggest objection to dogs -- and they are pretty darned adorable, so i didn't mind them, even though you had to be careful that you didn't step on one!

Although David was busy buzzing about from one group to another, and greeting the almost non-stop flow of guests, so that we were not able to talk much, I was able to have a couple of good chats with Robert. We share an interest in genealogy -- it was a long-held belief of his that he was related to Jesse James (a belief that has now been dashed, alas) that resulted in a short-lived obsession with all things Jesse James-ish...hence, the Jesse James Bourbon.

David and Robert, by the way, have been together longer than many heterosexual couples, and as far as I know have not adversely affected a single hetero-sexual marriage in all that time. They're sweet, funny, generous people, and it was good to see them both, and to see that they're "still crazy after all these years." I just hope we don't go another 13 years without seeing each other.

The silver lining

I just returned from a pleasant walk through my lovely neighborhood. I mentioned in my last posting that, as of last Monday, April 21st, spring still had not really arrived in Maine. However, by the time I returned home Wednesday evening -- or more precisely, by the next morning, when I looked out my window -- the grass had turned a deep emerald green, trees and shrubbery were budding, some flowering bushes were even in bloom. And this weekend we at last had warm, sunny days, and now the smiling, sunny faces of daffodils are appearing in many flower beds. At last, at last.

So, some of the positive aspects of my trip to New York. Breakfast the next morning, which just about made up for the disappointing dinner the night before. Especially since it was free. This was because the young people who had checked me in, besides misleading me about the caliber of the cafe, had convinced me to sign up for the Priority Club. "It doesn't cost anything," they said, "and you get all these neat coupons." One of those coupons was for a free breakfast. So I had an excellent breakfast "skillet" -- diced potatoes, green peppers, onions, sausage and bacon bits, topped with scrambled eggs -- along with a pot of hot tea, for nothing. And because there was so much left over, I had the waitress box it up for me; and into my travel cooler it went. That tasty mixture livened up my scrambled eggs next morning, when I made my own breakfast at my friends' house where I had stayed the night, and again on the morning after I returned home. Not bad, for no cost.

Then there was the pleasant, sunny drive from Oneonta to the little town of Gilbertsville, fifteen miles away, where I would again be doing genealogical research at the tiny, adorable stone library there. [See Note of July 16 2010 for my experiences at this library on my last trip.] I was reminded as I drove how much I love this part of the country. I love my Maine, love living there, but bucolic Otsego County, New York has second place in my heart. The tree-covered hills, the little valleys with their fields, the handsome, well-kept farms, the pretty little towns with the big old trees and the big old houses. It never ceases to amaze me that my great-great grandfather, William Cole, left this place, and his family, which was apparently quite close, to live in steamy hot south Texas.

And my research turned up some fascinating new infor-mation about William. I spent most of my time reading through the diary of William's mother, which I discovered last trip. This time what I found was that William (called Willie by his mother) was there, in Gilbertsville -- or more accurately on his parents' farm, out in the country -- May-Sept. 1871. Well, his daughter, my great-grandmother, Ann Willie Cole, was born in April of that year! And not in New York, but in Refugio Co., TX. So it would seem there were problems in the relationship of the young married couple. They had been married for only two years, and there William is, back at home. He returned to Texas in Sept., after he had "packed the big trunk," and gone to pay a goodbye visit to all his married sisters. His mother reports, on Sept. 13: "R [her husband] took Willie to the stage this morning. O how hard to part with him again." And that was the last time she saw him; the following March she received a letter from "Willie's wife" that he had died. He was only 25. Everyone's life is a story.

A big positive of the trip was being able to spend the evening visiting with my friends, Kathy and Bona, an hour up the road from Gilbertsville in Binghamton. Kathy was one of my three roommates in college, and we have remained in touch over the years. I always feel so comfortable at their house -- which i refer to as the K&B Bed & Breakfast -- and it is such a pleasure to be able to enjoy interesting, stimulating conversation with like-minded people, who don't necessarily share all of your opinions, but are able to disagree with civility and good humor. This was one of the things I badly needed, in getting away. The absence of friends in my day-to-day life has become a real drag on my spirits. We all need somebody.

The trip cost more than I expected it to, and was terribly short, and tiring, but I was glad I made it. I needed it.

Everyone's doing it

I have joined Facebook. Why have I joined Facebook? Mainly -- perhaps even solely -- in order to get a better sense of what's happening with a number of friends/ family members whom I rarely hear from. It seems most of them are on Facebook!

This is not really my kind of thing. Even writing this blog is often difficult for me, trying to walk the thin line between revealing enough about myself and my life to keep it from being boringly impersonal, and revealing an embarrassing too much; between my well-developed sense of privacy, and my desire to communicate my thoughts and feelings about "things."

Besides which Facebook is so much a matter of word bites -- "the family and i just got home from chunky-cheese, the line was out the door the whole time we were there," or (among the teenagers), "Mall tonight?" "What time?" -- whereas I am hard-pressed to limit what I say in these blog postings to just over a page. I have to work at being succinct.

Then there's the fact that, besides the minutiae of people's lives, I am constantly bombarded with political links from my most politically active "Friend" (my much-admired sister-in-law, Karen, whom I discussed at some length in the Oct. 27, 2010 Note )-- which leave me feeling overwhelmed, because many of them concern issues I do feel strongly about, but I simply cannot sign that many petitions (I don't much believe in petitions anyway, but rather in letters from individuals -- and I can't write that many letters to my President and my congressional reps!); with pleas to buy purses or have a purse-buying party, from the daughter of one of my Friends (whom I felt duty-bound to accept as a Friend as well) who sells the things; and with the announcements that so-and-so is now friends with so-and-so.

And I don't understand all the intricacies of the thing. What does the "Like" feature mean? So often people seem to "like" something that doesn't really call for a do-you-like-this-or-not opinion. And since I am getting all these exchanges between my Friends, and their Friends -- whom I don't generally ask to be friends with, since for heaven's sake I don't even know these people -- does that mean all of my exchanges are appearing on not only my Friends' pages (where I don't find them!), but on the pages of my Friends' Friends? It's all quite mad.

And my god, was ever an expression more overused than 'lol'?

Nonetheless, this very public "bulletin board" is doing exactly what I hoped it would do: letting me see what are the day-to-day concerns and activities of those I care about, but have a hard time keeping in touch with. I've already learned much more about my nephew in these few weeks of reading his and his friends endless one-line communiques, than I have ever known before. Didn't know he played the guitar ("I sing, too," he told me), didn't know he "tutted" (tutting being a dance form -- as I learned when I looked it up on the Internet -- in which the emphasis is on sliding the arms and hands in and out of geometric designs, a la King Tut [or to be more precise, like the figures in wall paintings in Egyptian tombs]), didn't know he liked the Beatles (one of the few things we have in common).

Well, so there I am, though I may very well be the weakest link in the chain.

Especially for you

I just received a late Christmas present. Or rather, I just discovered it. Under my sofa, where it was apparently kicked at some point. The thing is, I didn't know it was a Christmas present, when I found it in my Post Office box on Christmas Eve. It was from Vista Print. I had ordered some business cards from them a few months ago, but knew I hadn't ordered anything from them recently. And yet, on the three large envelopes inside the padded mailer was imprinted 'Thanks for your order!' I had the fleeting thought: Oh, it's going to be one of those unordered-merchandise-return-to-sender things. (Although yes, I know you can't do that once you've opened a package.) So anyway I tossed the package aside to be dealt with later; at the time, I was right in the middle of my brother's visit.

Recently my friend Fae asked me via email if I'd received a Mystery Package at Christmas. Having completely forgotten about the parcel from Vista Print (out of sight out of mind with me, and it had now been under my couch for who knows how long), I responded in the negative. Then this evening when I was searching everywhere for the spiral notebook in which I write my List of Things To Do, and without which I am lost, I looked under the sofa, and found the Mystery Package. When I opened the interior envelopes I saw sheets and sheets of beautiful return address stickers...with lighthouses on them. And a light bulb went on in my head. I had mentioned in my Note of December 18, 2010 that I couldn't shorten the amount of time doing Christmas cards takes by using return address stickers, because I considered those a little luxury I really couldn't afford. And most of my friends know by now that I love lighthouses. So...my lightening brain was busy putting two and two together...Fae had ordered luxury return address stickers for me, but since they came directly from the printer's, I hadn't known that.

But now I did, and could properly thank my good friend for her thoughtful gift.

This is the kind of gift I like to both receive, and give. A sudden realization that something would be perfect for someone, and promptly getting it for him or her. Not because it's Christmas, or their birthday, but because you know they need it, or would love it. My friend Ernest once sent me an audio book of The Iliad, read by Derek Jacoby, because he knew I was a huge fan of the actor's.
My sister's trip to the San Francisco area at Thanksgiving was a gift from me to her, because I knew it was some-thing she'd enjoy, and indeed needed, but could not afford.

A monetary gift need not be of the I-don't-know-what-else-to-get-you-so-here's-some-money variety. My English friends Ann and John once sent me $500, because both Micheal and I were at the time unemployed, and I had just incurred a large hospital bill as the result of what was apparently a mild heart attack. I wanted to pay them back, but they insisted it was a gift. A friend who would probably prefer to remain nameless sent me a gift in early fall that made it possible for me to make the trip to Texas I'd been wanting to make for months.

I also love gifts that are the result of personal effort/ talent. The above-mentioned Fae has delighted me with bracelets she made herself (she's a beader), and a very long knitted scarf she'd made herself (she's also a knitter). My friend Mary frequently includes Haiku poems she's written with birthday/Christmas cards, and one of the loveliest gifts I ever received was a whole book of them that she had produced. My friend Robert offered me my choice of a number of his art works, when I saw him in Ft. Worth this fall; a long time ago he did a watercolor of an owl for me, because he knew I liked owls.

It's people at their best: giving, to give pleasure.

A rose by any other name...

I am fascinated by names, by the importance of names, the impor-tance humans attach to names. If we start talking to someone we don't know, we feel compelled early on to introduce ourselves, to provide that person with our name, with the expectation being that s/he in turn will provide us with a name. We become more real to one another, more substantial, once we have exchanged names.

We feel insulted if we're with someone who starts talking to someone else, and fails to introduce us. Introducing us gives us a name, at which point we cease to be invisible; we become real.

We get upset if others misspell our names. Our names represent us, stand for us; we want people to get them right. I'm not one of those Melodies with an 'i,e', I'm this particular Melody, with a 'y.' It's not Camp, it's Norman-Camp.

And it isn't just names of people that are important. We don't like feeling bad, going to the doctor because we feel bad, having all kinds of tests done, and then not being provided with a name for what's wrong with us. ("Sorry, all your tests are within the normal range." -- in other words, we haven't a clue what's wrong with you.)

People can have the wrong name. I have two friends who definitely have the wrong name, though presumably they don't think so. One is one of my oldest friends -- we go back to Accelerated English class and American Government class, sophomore year of high school -- when she was Carol. A very common name back then, along with Linda, and Judy, and Barbara, and Patricia (always called Pat, or Patty), and Diane. Names people don't give their daughters anymore. These days it's Kaitlyn or Alexis or Abigail or Isabella or Madison or Emma. (Fashions in naming also fascinate me.)

But to get back to Carol. It turns out that Carol is actually her middle name, and some years ago my friend decided to start calling herself by her first name, Martha. When this change took place we were not in touch -- we dropped out of one another's lives for many years, and then dropped back in a few years ago thanks to Classmates.com. When we reconnected I was very surprised to learn that Carol was now Martha. Martha to me is a very old-fashioned name -- I put it in with the likes of Josephine and Geraldine and Mabel, names our grand-mothers might have had. And Carol is hardly an old-fashioned girl. So I've had a hard time thinking of her as Martha, though of course I call her that...though sometimes, in emails, it will be Martha Carol, to take care of both my comfort zone, and her preferences.

Would it have been different if the switch had been the other way around, if I'd known her as Martha in our youth, and she'd then adopted Carol? Would I now be having a hard time thinking of her as Carol? Perhaps, but there's the case of my friend Meaghan, who was born Grace, and was Grace when I first knew her (she was my very first roommate, way back in Washington, D.C. about 100 years ago). Grace always hated her name, and a few decades back decided she was Meaghan, instead. I had absolutely no trouble calling her that, or thinking of her as Meaghan; the name really did seem to suit her better than the old-fashioned 'Grace.' People can have the wrong name.

There's my friend Joey. When I first met him, back in my Boston days, he was Joe. But neither name really suits him, as far as I am concerned. Joe sounds like a bruiser of a Polish stevedore; Joey sounds like a third-generation mafioso. Joey is neither; he's a slight, very bright, very funny newspaperman who has been hit by the dissolution of the newspaper industry (similar to the dissolution of the monasteries by Henry VIII), and is filling in time uploading to his Flickr web page the many, many interesting, amusing, quirky pictures he is constantly taking. As far as I'm concerned his name should be Eric, or Elliot or maybe Terry. Something a whole lot lighter than Joe, a lot more intellectual than Joey. But Joey apparently identifies with Joey, just as I identify with Melody, and the friend-formerly-known-as-Grace identifies with Meaghan. These are our claims to who we are, and we want people to get them right. So there.

The other New York

For most of the 114 miles separating Albany and Binghamton, New York there stretches a beautiful, bucolic valley, liberally sprinkled with small dairy farms. Near the Binghamton end is the small college town, Oneonta, where I was an undergraduate. I so loved the area that I tried to stay on after I graduated, but teaching jobs were hard to find (before I was a librarian I was a teacher), so I ended up moving to Boston, where I spent the next nineteen years of my life.

But I always derive great satisfaction from making the drive along Route 88, that runs the length of that valley, for much of the way along a shelf cut out of the side of the hills, which then continue down into that shallow, peaceful valley. When you look out from that shelf you see hills across the way that recede in a way that makes me think of old-fashioned stage scenery – a flat painted to look like a hill, and a little way beyond that, another flat, then another, to give a sense of distance. This vista is very different from the terrain of the Berkshires, even though both places are full of hills and trees. In the Berkshires the furry round hills crowd around you, there are few actual vistas. And this is clearly domesticated land while the Berkshires give the appearance, anyway, of being in their pristine state. The Berkshires also depend utterly on the tourist trade, while this valley sees tourists mainly just passing through, though some do make a destination of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown.

I would live in this valley in a heartbeat, just as I would in the Berkshires, even though both would make my heeding the occasional call of the sea more difficult. But both contain at least two of my residential requirements : natural beauty that's heavy on the color green, and a climate that knows more cool weather than hot. The Berkshires are full of artists, while the valley between Albany and Binghamton is full of no-nonsense farmers. I love art, but dislike nonsense, so either place would suit me. Admittedly, the politics of the Berkshires would probably be closer to mine than those of struggling upstate New York.

The reason I was driving this route was that I was stopping off for the night at the home, in Binghamton, of one of my college roommates. Kathy was the roommate who got me through physics (I would come home from class, utterly bewildered, and she would explain everything in terms of apples and oranges), and who taught me to drive. She was the perfect driving instructor, completely unflappable. I remember once we were coming down and around a steep curve, during a practice drive, and I suddenly realized I was going way too fast. Instead of screaming and grabbing the wheel Kathy calmly said, "It might be good to slow down a little."

Kathy, husband Bona and son Bryan inhabit what I call the K&B Bed and Breakfast, since I almost always stay overnight at their house when I am headed anyplace west. They are located a convenient 8-hour drive from my home in Maine, and always welcome me with open arms, into a relaxed, like-minded atmosphere where we inevitably have stimulating political and moral discussions, with all of us managing to be our most entertaining at the same time. How can you beat that?

Games

During my trip to Texas, I spent one evening with an old friend from high school. I have kept in touch over the years with four friends from my high school days: three girlfriends from my sophomore and junior years at Robert E. Lee in San Antonio (do they have Ulysses S. Grant high schools in the North?), and Bobby, from Arlington Heights in Ft. Worth, where I attended my senior year. Bobby – who is tall, rangy, and looks like the mature Sean Connery — is a great reader and has kept me informed about books over the years, reading things and commenting succinctly about them way before I got around to them. He has always delighted in words, and often when I have visited him, on my occasional trips to Texas, we have spent an evening or afternoon playing Scrabble. Which is what we did this time, but with a difference.

My friend had a variation on Scrabble, called Upwords, which I'd never heard of, but was certainly willing to try, especially when accompanied by my favorite drink, bourbon and coke, and some cookies. In Upwords you not only build words across and down, you build them up. In other words, you can form new words by putting the little letter tiles on top of letters that are already on the board.

I was not very good at this. Frankly, although I enjoy the game – and despite being a writer, someone who is constantly working with words – I'm not really very good at even basic Scrabble, rarely able to come up with long words, large-scoring words. I just don't seem to be able to look at what is already on the board, and see other possibilities. I don't know what kind of skill that ability represents.

I think about chess. That game calls for strategic skill, the ability to think ahead, considering various possible moves and the likely repercussions. I am no good at this kind of game, either. Is the same, or a related, skill involved in being able to see other possible words on a board? Or is it more of a visual thing? Is it about the brain's ability to make connections, fill in gaps? I am definitely going to have to investigate this...

Well, we had fun, as we always do. We were joined by Robert's mother, a delightful woman in her eighties who still plays tennis. We all had just the right amount of alcohol, and cookies. Spending time with good friends is a great pleasure for most of us, and one I am able to indulge in far too rarely. This was one of the good things that happened on what was otherwise a pretty dreadful trip.

And where were you born?

Last year I asked all of my friends who are reachable by email where they were born. Given how mobile Americans tend to be, I was curious as to how close to their birth place my friends and relatives currently lived. I found the results quite interesting.

Easily the most exotic birth place was Corrigedor, the Philippines. I know Friend Bob L. from when we were both hanging out at the State University of New York at Oneonta – I as a student and Bob as a professor – but Bob now lives on the west coast, in Pacific Grove, California.

The other person who lives farthest from her birth place is one of my three oldest friends, whom I know from when we were going to high school together in San Antonio, Texas, where we were both born. But Sherry has lived in Paris, France for the past 25 years (for which I have never quite been able to overcome my envy).

As far as the two other “oldest friends” from high school go – one was born in Ohio, but has lived most of her adult life in San Antonio; the other was born in New Mexico, has lived for many years now in Oregon, which she loves, and keeps trying to get me to come visit her in (and when I can afford to, Martha, I will!)

I was interested to learn that one of my two English friends, John, who now lives in High Wycombe, about 30 miles northwest of London, was born in Leeds, in the north. What was most interesting was that he was born at home. And John is from my generation, not from an older generation that one might expect to be born at home...as for example my stepmother, who was not only born at home – near the small town of Troop, in East Texas – she was born in the same house her mother had been born in, and in the same bed.

The other person from my generation who was born at home was actually born in her grandmother’s home out in the countryside of North Carolina. Meaghan grew up in Greenville, NC; she and I met when we became roommates in Washington, D.C. where we’d both gone to seek adventure and fortune right out of high school. Now Meaghan lives in Connecticut...and I, of course, live in Maine.

I have two friends who were born in the Bronx. Both I know from my days at Oneonta (quite a few of my friends date from my college days). Tim has lived for many years in Florida – he hates the cold – and Bob S. moved to Seattle a few years ago, after living for many years in New Jersey.

One of the most amusing birth scenarios involved one of my sisters in-law, who grew up in Minnesota. I had assumed that that was where she was born, but no indeed, she was born in Kansas City, which is where her parents happened to be when she decided it was time to be born. I met her in Ft. Worth, whence my stepbrother Mike had whisked her, after meeting her and falling for her on a skiing trip to Colorado. A widow like myself, she still lives in Ft. Worth (she also dislikes the cold)

An example of coming full circle – which often happens to people – friend John Mark was born in Kansas City, Kansas, I met him when we were both living in Anchorage, Alaska, and now John Mark lives across the river from his birth place, in Kansas City, Missouri. He’s picked out his grave site, so I guess he’s there to stay.

For all that so many of us have gone far afield from where we first sprang up, many of us still live within spitting distance of where we were born. Friend Ernest was born in Port Jefferson, Long Island, has lived virtually his entire life in nearby Patchogue, except for two years spent in the army in Anchorage – which is where we met. Friend Janis was born in Odessa, Texas, now lives 158 miles away in Abilene, which is where we met. Friend Ruth was born in Hudson, Massachusetts, which is maybe a 40 minute drive from where she has lived for many years in Arlington (suburb of Boston). These are also, I might add, among the most stable people I know.

Basically I see that most of my friends were born in New York – people I met while going to school in upstate N.Y., or when I was living in Boston – or Texas. There are a few other midwesterners thrown in for good measure – people born in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and Carthage, Missouri whom I know, however, from Boston, and southern Louisiana. A couple of people born in Pittsburgh, PA, whom I also met in Boston, ditto some Connecticut natives.

Perhaps most interesting is the fact that I am easily the biggest gypsy of all the people I know. They may be living many miles from where they were born – in several cases on opposite coasts – but they generally have not lived all that many places in-between. It is because I have lived in so many different places that I have met them all! And presumably all those people are just five additional people (after me; I’m the first of the “six degrees”) from knowing one another.