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I'm most recently a writer.  In the six plus decades of my life, I've been a wife, mother, grandmother, Jill of all trades though mistress of but a few, and most of the time pretty content with my lot.  As a much younger person, I believed I was called to write, but life and living distracted me for most of those decades.  An unwilling transplant from the South,  twenty years ago I unintentionally landed in the geographical center of the US.  Writing came about in part due to the unwillingness, I expect.  When caring for family, gardening, and renovating a century-old house failed to provide sufficient creative outlets, I turned to the one thing I always intended to do.  Eight titles later, I'm grateful I found myself while Lost in the Plains!

Monday, February 11, 2013

Those Who Weave

I had an email this morning informing me of the death of someone I've known since childhood.  The email was from a friend from that same bygone time, from a place that lives on in our shared memories, but no longer really exists.  It set me thinking of the magical way our lives weave a pattern of surprising beauty and strength, even though many of us have gone our very separate ways.

The friend who sent the email is a perfect example of that magic. Ron and I shared only a few years of our young lives in the village where I grew up, before his family moved away in what I saw as one of the great tragedies of my life.  He is the middle of three brothers, the youngest of which is my age, so it surprised me to no end when several years ago, his telephone call reconnected our lives.  He's made a mission of staying in touch with the people he describes as having made the greatest impact on him as a boy, the population of less than 100 inhabitants of that little village.  He goes to church homecomings and funerals, and is invited to class reunions, although he didn't actually graduate from the county high school.  He tracked me down through a mutual acquaintance, an antique dealer I'd sold some of my mother's treasures to when I closed up her house several years earlier.  Thanks to the Internet, he found my number and called to say, "I don't know if you remember me, but. . ."

We kept in touch, and last year on my 60th Birthday Road Trip, the highlight was sitting in a little diner for three hours with Ron and Mike, the brother I was closest to, and catching up on a past I left behind almost forty years ago.  Names, places and events sprang to life as one after the other "Do you remember?" brought back memories I didn't know I still had.  It was a true homecoming for this child who was raised by that village, but for many reasons felt the need to move on.  People like Ron are a gift to those of us who can't go home again because home is no longer there.

Another recent email from Ron informed me of a possible reunion of what they are calling the "Jetersville Gang."  We're all over 60 now.  I'm actually one of the youngest of the gaggle of children who played from yard to yard, climbed trees, sledded down "the hill" and chased lightning bugs.  I can only imagine the stories we've lived, if we all sat down to tell them.  I for one wouldn't know where to begin.  Marriages, births, divorces, deaths ,and all the things that fit between those milestones, have passed through our lives by now.  Most likely, such a reunion will provide the occasion for many more of those magical "Do you remember. . ." journeys.

I don't know that I'll be able to attend.  What I know is that just the idea makes me happy. The pattern will be woven with yet another stripe, the bond will be strengthened, and the home we can't go back to will be honored in the memories of those who, however briefly, shared its security.

Thanks Ron.


  1. So sorry to hear about your friend. {hugs}

  2. Thanks! He was one of those angels in disguise who would show up at the precise moment you needed him. A bright halo and wide white wings were waiting, I'm sure.