Auld Lang Syne
July 29, 2012
Periodically, I try to get rid of stuff. Last week, I decided to throw away my DayRunner six-ring calendar. It’s been gathering dust ever since I got my Blackberry five years ago.
Tucked into a pocket of the calendar was a small tattered green address book, and I couldn’t resist a look at it before tossing.
First there was Adele, my staff assistant thirty years ago. I have no idea where she is now, but once she came to our house for a short visit when she was in town for Thanksgiving. We left Peter and the kids watching a Boston College Football game in the den to chat in the living room. A minute later, Doug Flutie threw his famous Hail Mary pass, and we missed it.
Then there was the number for Becket—the summer camp that the kids attended for so long. I doubt that we called very often, but the number was always with me.
Europeds—the company we took our first bike trip with in 1985-- brought back memories of more than twenty years of bike vacations.
Muriel—almost like a sister, but not well for years, and now passed away.
Sue, a close colleague. She died six years ago and I still miss her every day.
I always keep addresses in pencil because people move around a lot. But for a moment, time was frozen in place in my tattered green address book.
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