I'm here, at the library, again now. (I have found that after a while in the noise-filled coffee place, the quiet becomes strangely appealing. You can't start the other way around. Coffee comes first. It makes you on the ball enough to want to continue living.) Not much interrupted my train of thought the other day. There were, maybe, a couple of nostalgic moments about being here. How did the silence feel to my teenage self vs. how it feels to the 2010 version of me? How different am I, really? Had I not received a surprise package in the mail a few days ago, I might have answered, "... no different, just older."
Wow. And WTF (pardon my Internet slang French)? Apparently, I was fairly kooky. At least more so than I remembered. Or maybe that's what teenagers will always be and I shouldn't judge myself unfairly. When the mail arrived the other day, a small, manilla envelope was among the bills and flyers and the Census Bureau questionnaire. The return address was that of my best friend, Lynne, from high school. Inside were four letters I had written to her, starting with one from what appears to be December of 1969 and ending with one written on her birthday in November of 1971.
The first was written on a piece of tan colored, construction paper. The second was one sheet, front and back, college-ruled. The third letter... three typed pages. I believe we called the paper onion-skin. The fourth, her birthday letter, was composed (with an apology for the choice of stationery) on two pieces of lined paper, torn out of a spiral notebook. The only reason I have these in my hands right now is because she, my best friend, kept them. And because we had no computers, no iChat, no text messaging. And if my mother's garage had not been destroyed by a fire some years ago, I might have been able to reciprocate by sending a small, manilla envelope to Seattle. Then Lynne's eyes could widen and her jaw could drop, hearing herself "talk" some forty years ago.
I'm hoping it was all the rage to be cryptic back then. If not, it appears that I must have been drugged with something that causes illiterate rambling. Because for the most part I don't know what the f@*k I was talking about.
I can determine that in late 1969 I was quoting Cicero and Joni Mitchell, I was interested in boys (one in particular) and that I liked to use the word "croak". This is what I was going to do if absence (over the Winter Break) didn't make someone's heart grow fonder. Apparently, I was also excited about an impending party that I was throwing. (I remember that really well because I took a pass on a trip to Switzerland to play the part of Perle Mesta, the Hostess with the Mostess, at this event.) I do not remember the significance of $ 7011.00 or a hammock.
Within a couple of weeks, January 1st, 1970 to be exact, I was using the word "assholes" rather freely in some reference to Lynne and myself, and I was writing random sentences in French. I said that I thought my favorite season was Winter but that I wasn't positive. And in true non-sequitur fashion, I followed that statement with something about the significance of the two boys who were the first people to arrive at my party, "...except for me, Kathy, Lucy, Laurie, & you." Girls didn't count, I guess. And it seems like blowing off that trip to the Swiss Alps might have paid off, although, I'm not really sure.
From the three typewritten pages, I gather that I was upset about my boyfriend having a "childhood love" who yelled "HALLLLOOOOOOWWWW" to him (from a car) while he was walking down the street. Childhood love?!?!? Yeah. 'Cause, like, we were about fifteen by then. By the end of page two, things were looking up because I reported to Lynne that my boyfriend " absolutely positively definitely thinks she's a freak, a weird and a shit." Whew. Which is exactly what I said then, too.
On November 23rd, 1971, in honor of her birthday, I wrote to Lynne. We were in the 12th grade. She turned seventeen that day. I would do the same about three months later. Reflecting upon 10th grade, 9th, and then 11th, must have been some kind of preparation for all of us going our somewhat separate ways within the coming year. At least one of my earlier questions was answered here. We had, apparently, named ourselves "the two assholes", which is better than someone calling you one. The number 7011 reappeared and I still have no idea what it means but I'm going to ask Lynne. At some point, we renamed ourselves Phyllis Creamcheese and Roberta Bagel. Slightly more appealing than "the two assholes", but not by much.
Here's the thing. Fall is my favorite season. I know that now.
