the birthday girl

Many of my high school memories have faded into the background. Forever, I hope. But there are other memories that, like a beautiful dream, remain as clear and as vivid as if they happened last week.

I remember swinging from a rope into the gravel pit. The splash of water, muffled by the pounding music. Turning to face the shore, I saw her, swaying back and forth and singing. To Heart, of course. Her favorite band back then was manned only by women, but given her independent spirit, that was hardly a surprise.

I remember when she came over dinner and my father told us, ponderously, that he didn’t mind if we got into his booze but “for the love of God, please stop watering it down.” No problem, I replied coolly as she slowly drizzled in embarrassment underneath the table.

But she understands dysfunction. So no apologies necessary.

And I remember walking. For hours and hours, we walked and we talked, full of things to say to each other, even though we’d driven to school together (for she faithfully picked me up every morning) and driven home together, and I believe I’d even stopped in for a visit after school. We talked about the boys we loved, the friends we knew and the people we’d become.

We never, ever ran out of things to talk about.

In college, things didn’t really change. We went to different schools, moved with different friends and yet still, we managed to see each other all the time.

One fateful night, after yet another wild party where we’d socialized with others but always came back together to giggle at someone’s sloppy drunkenness, to ask if “he” was looking over at us and just generally to check in, I popped that inevitable, eternal summertime teenager’s question:

“So, do you want to go swimming?”

The fountain and the oversized pond beckoned and shucking clothes aside, we waded in at a little after 2 in the morning. The resulting dogs barking, lights turning on and general mayhem (“Lisa, let’s go! Now!” “I can’t find my glasses!” “Leave them!” “I can’t drive without them!”) inevitably resulted in a fast drive home… with most of our clothing left behind.

And on my last official day of college, after I finished up my final exam (Statistics), instead of hanging around for my graduation ceremony, we hopped a plane for San Francisco. A few days in a beautiful old building in Pacific Heights, and we hit the road in my brother’s Miata. By Napa Valley we had been on top of each other for days:

“I want to go back to wine country.”

“Everywhere we go is the whine country, Angela.”

We got our sense of humor back by Eureka, with an entertaining stay at the Vista View motel, the ugliest motel in America. And the drive up 101 to Oregon was breathtaking…it’s still one of my favorite drives today.

That’s what memories are made of; that’s how friendships are born. Through heartfelt associations and instant connections that sometimes, we’re lucky enough to make with new people. “I recognize you,” I thought when I met her.

And I was right; I knew her all along.

I believe that connections are important; we should acknowledge them and accept them as natural part of living and loving. I’m thankful for the friends that I have. I’m lucky to continue to make new connections and new friends as I continue to grow up and grow older.

But there’s something special about high school friends. They capture a place in our heart and characterize a place in time that no else can ever reach. That no one else can ever touch.


Happy Birthday, Ang.