Serendipity, Facebook and One BFF

Last week I had one of those experiences that only come with being a Facebook user. And a blog reader.

The whole thing started back in sixth grade when I met my best friend forever, Curly Pam. We went through junior high and high school, undergraduate years at UCLA and into and beyond graduate school. Thick as thieves, we promised to be best friends. And we were, until we grew apart. I came to think that Curly Pam was meant to be my best friend for those years, but who was not meant to come into the future with me. Still, I never forgot her. Our paths crossed about every few years when we'd find an old address book and reach out with a letter. Until about ten years ago when the letters ceased. The last one came back, undelivered and undeliverable.

I wondered what happened to her. Had she died? Did she no longer want to correspond with a friend from the past who wasn't enough of a friend in the present or future? The last letter I had was from Fairbanks where she was living with her bush pilot husband, Jay. Had their plane crashed?

That brings us to the present. I love The Blood-Red Pencil, a blog written by a group of writers on a wide variety of topics. One entry was a wonderful review/discussion about a Western writer named Slim Randles. Can there be a better name for a Western writer?

Slim Randles? I knew a Slim Randles and his younger brother Bob Randles back at UCLA when dinosaurs walked the earth and dirt was young. I clicked the links and read Slim's bio. Too many touch points with what I remembered about my friend's brother. I asked the blog writer what she knew about Slim, but she didn't know if he was from Southern California or not.

I found Slim on Facebook and sent him a message. Within minutes, he responded that he was indeed THAT Slim Randles and could put me in touch with his brother. This would not have happened if Facebook didn't let these links come together.

Slim and Bob both married Pams. Slim married Red Pam back in the the late '60s, moved to Alaska and homesteaded out on the Yukon River. Bob married Curly Pam, my grade school friend, back it the late '60s. They didn't move to Alaska until a few years later. In time, both Randles brothers divorced their respective Pams.

My Pam, Curly Pam, stayed in Alaska and eventually married her bush pilot, Jay. After the birth of their son, I lost touch. We moved on with our respective lives.

So, why did it hurt so much to know that Curly Pam died from cancer this year? Because my husband and I didn't get up to Fairbanks where Curly Pam and Jay lived two years ago when we went to Alaska. Because I could have been a better friend and written more often.

Upon reflection, and news from Slim and Bob, I think my friendship with Curly Pam was meant to lapse. I miss knowing she is no longer of this world. I remember growing up together. And I rue not being a good enough friend to grow old with her.

I am so grateful to Maryann Miller for writing her column on Slim. After all, who could forget that name? I didn't and now I have answers to many unanswered questions. Thank you, Maryann, for helping me close a door to part of my past.

He Doesn't Write, He Doesn't Call

For months, I thought we had a real relationship. I mean, I didn't see it coming, but when I got the first e-mail, I confess I couldn't believe it.

At the beginning, the e-mails were general, wanting to be my friend, never asking anything of me. I replied in kind. I wanted to be his friend, too. I never expected anything but being a pen pal, but that was good enough for me.

Then he called. Once, twice in a month. I could hardly answer his questions. His voice was so deep, so rich. I fell in love. I confess, I fell in love with a voice. Sometimes it was raspy. I worried he had a cold. Sometimes it was strong and vibrant. The calls became more frequent, as did the e-mails. Within half a year, we were in constant contact, exchanging e-mails daily. I couldn't call him, so I had to wait for his incoming call. I never thought about why he didn't give me a number.

My friends said I was nuts. He was probably married and trolling for a sucker. I knew different. He wasn't trolling for a sucker. He was interested in me, and only in me. He never asked for much money. Just a few dollars here and there. No asking for access to my bank accounts. No asking for large sums. Just a few dollars. I could afford a few dollars, so I sent him the money.

Then, one day the calls and e-mails stopped. My in-box was empty. My phone was silent. Where had he gone? Were my skeptical friends right after all? Did he have someone else? Someone younger? Richer? I wept, but never let my friends know how devastated I felt. I had pinned my hopes and dreams on a voice at the end of a long phone line, warm words in e-mails. And now, thundering silence, except for my sobs. I feel dirty, used, used up.

Much as I hate to admit it. I've been dumped. Worse yet, Bill Clinton, the Big Dog, dumped me. Again. I guess he was only after my money, one $3.00 donation at a time.

Memorable Days

Yesterday I got up to fix the Thanksgiving meal for my beloved husband Terry. I'd been up more than an hour when I remembered what the historical date meant for me.

Every generation has a day in history it will never forget. For the Greatest Generation, it might be Pearl Harbor Day, D-Day, the end of World War II. They can tell you where they were, what they were doing, when they heard the news.

The Baby Boomers can tell you what they were doing on November 22, 1963 when they heard that President Kennedy had been assassinated.

Later generations have their memorable dates as well. The day the space shuttle Challenger exploded. 9/11.

Every year since 1963, I would wake up and remember what happened and where I was. This year was the first time I didn't think about the assassination the second my feet hit the floor. I felt a pang of guilt. Had the events of the day ceased to be important, to have an impact on me? I don't think so, but time has a way of replacing historical dates with personal dates. Our private dates are those we hold closest to the heart.

The day we met our spouses (spice? What is the plural of spouse, anyway?). Our anniversary. The day children were born. Graduations, more weddings, grandchildren, all become more important and push the historical dates aside.

I heard the first reminder of what November 22 meant at a news break at halftime in the third football game. Now, I didn't have television tuned to news channels at all, so there might have been earlier mentions. I doubt it. As time has passed, more people alive today were born after 1963 than before. For them, the assassination wasn't a current event but a historical one. For those of us who remember, it forms part of the fabric of our memories.

Yesterday my husband and I added another personal memory to that fabric. We plan to continue adding more memories with each passing day. To you and yours, remember your memories, personal and historical. They make you, you.

We Get What We Deserve

Tomorrow, Americans have an opportunity to elect a president. Why do I say "opportunity?" Because turnout will be nowhere close to 100% of the electorate. To think that we are so cavalier about being able to vote makes me weep. People who live in countries where they are oppressed for even thinking about voting would gladly stand in lines to have their vote registered and counted.

Back in 1996, Martin Walker wrote a book, The President We Deserve, about Clinton's reelection campaign. His thesis was we knew who the president was; we knew his infidelity; we knew his foibles. And we reelected him anyway.

I want to that that a step further. No, I'm not advocating for or against our current president. If you feel you must pounce on me, pounce for what I write, not what you think I believe.

In talking with people over the past year, I'm dismayed at how many are turned completely off by the campaigns. Both campaigns. Up and down the ballot. My friends are burned out from the yelling, negative saturation TV ads, lies and half-truths. Too many are threatening not to vote at all. And herein lies my concern.

If you don't vote, we all get the president and Congress we deserve. If you don't vote for or against a candidate, any candidate, you could be part of the process that gets the other guy elected. If you stay home, you lose your right to bellyache the day after the election and for the next four years. You have not done your civic duty.

I want to see a major change in voting laws. I want voting to be mandatory, not optional. All citizens should have to go to the polls and cast a ballot. Maybe some would vote without learning thing one about the candidates. Hell, that happens today. But 100% turnout should be the least we could do.

I also want a box on the ballot in every category that is "D) None of the Above." Here in Virginia, and a few other states, our choices for president this year would be (in alpha order), A) Virgil Goode, B) Barack Obama, C) Mitt Romney and D) None of the Above. D would likely win. At least, the human winner would not be able to claim a clear mandate from the people if 51% of 50% vote for him. I know it would never work. I know no one has the fortitude to suggest such a change.

But, one of these days pigs will fly and Hell will freeze over. Right now, pigs flying and Hell freezing aren't on the ballot. Two things we can safely bellyache about. Think I'll go for a walk and look for flying pigs.