December 28, 2006
Thursday

On the Feast of Stephen I reported that I had actually accomplished something, writing, packing up, and sending off a letter to my college roommates. It went six pages (almost 3000 words), but most of it is a reproduction of the material I wrote to the college newspaper about my memories of the site where it is now believed the founder of Millersville lies buried. So it’s not all about me and what I’ve been doing in the last thirty-seven years. Actually, only about a page of it is about that.

Still, I’m nervous. How will this material be received? Will they remember me as fondly as I remember them? Will some of them not remember me at all?

I’ve had a few experiences within the last year or so to leave me feeling apprehensive. Last Christmas I wrote to someone I knew in high school and for a few years beyond. She was a highly regarded English teacher in the middle school Lynn attended, but she retired before Lynn had an opportunity to be in her class. She had been very kind to me when I was having a bad patch in the early 70s, and she had asked after me whenever she saw my mother in church. I saw something that reminded me of a running joke from our high school days, and I sent it to her with a letter telling her how much her friendship had meant to me during a difficult time.

I received a reply that was gracious, as I would expect, but decidedly cool. She has in recent years refused all contact with friends from the old days and never comes to our reunions, so this was not unexpected. I was less hurt than I was concerned that I had put her in a position to be gracious but cool.

The invitation to my party goes to a lot of people who found their way onto my list during the time that some friends and I worked diligently to track down every single person we could for our big 40th Anniversary of the Start of Our Senior Year reunion in 2004. Those were delightful sessions in which we wound up sharing memories of people we’d known together and separately.

Caller ID told me that one of those old friends not seen for so long was calling about a week after the invitation was delivered. Without thinking, I answered with, “Hi Helen!” The voice on the other end sounded uncertain. “I’m calling Margaret DeAngelis,” she said. “About an invitation?”

It turned out that although the text of the letter makes reference to the Class of ’65 at Bishop McDevitt High School, I had never included my maiden name, and this woman had never made the connection. Even now she was having trouble.

“We were in homeroom together. We sat at tables in the home ec room instead of desks.” I said. “You and me and Joanie Z.”

“Oh, Joanie! Of course!”

“Well, I sat on the other side of you from Joanie. She had a big slumber party that year. We took pictures of each other standing over the heating grate, letting the air blow up into our nightgowns and making us look pregnant.”

“You know,” she said, “I can’t really place you.”

I’m afraid that’s going to happen today. I’m afraid that some of these women who meant so much to me, who were once the people I shared my most intimate joys and sorrows with, are either not going to remember me, or are going to feel annoyed at my imposing on them six pages (plus a four-page newspaper tabloid) about a topic they have absolutely no interest in.

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