One is Silver, the Other is Gold

Growing up I lived in a cul-de-sac. At the end of my block was my elementary school and the large sloping lawn that surrounded it. This was the suburbs and the school was rich in playground equipment, swings, two baseball diamonds and room enough for a soccer field to be spray painted onto the grass in summer. If I took a right at the school and a left on the next block I'd find myself at Vanessa's house.

I say "if" as if this is a hypothetical. As if I didn't make this walk, in one or the other direction, approximately eight thousand times in my childhood and teen years.

I crossed those two and a half blocks on bright summer mornings, passing kids yelling and racing each other across the playgrounds. I crossed those two and a half blocks on late winter nights, crunching over the iced sidewalk, breathing into my mittened hands. I crossed those two and a half blocks just to drop by one house or the other and turn around again to trace my steps back.

Occasionally we'd meet in the middle, her dog straining on his leash to reach my mostly disinterested dog. Oh, unrequited love, we joked. When I'm home, Vanessa tells me now, and I take Apollo for a walk, he still looks down your street and waits for Windsor.

On Wednesday I met with my writing group. There are eight of us, from the MFA program. We bring food and wine and treats and we talk about writing for a few hours as we nibble and drink. We go around and talk about our writing week and every week two writers are on deck to be (more or less) workshopped. This week we are talking about a story I wrote that was inspired in part by a high school friend and in which snow plays a rather significant role.

A bit later, when the chat has turned to after-hours gossip I think about how great these new friends are, about how much I will miss them when I leave San Francisco. These new friends who talk about writing and imagery and make notes for me about setting without ever having seen the smooth red booths of the restaurant in Minnesota I secretly imagine my characters slipping into.

I feel the buzz of my phone against my leg. When I slip it from my pocket there's a text message from another old friend. MARGO! It reads. No one in the Bay Area calls me Margo. She is in SF for work and we are going to get together later in the week. She is probably the friend I've known the longest, that I am still in touch with. There is a photo of us in unfortunately large sweatshirts with unfortunately fluffy haircuts standing in front her family's Christmas tree in the third grade.

We are talking about dating, relationships, familiar and interesting territory for gossip. Someone says something and it reminds me of story from before, something funny, an iconic sort of story, one the friends I knew before know well, but one I can offer new friends. It's well received, we laugh and they know a little bit more about me, inconsequential as it is.

I've already been instructed by my departing childhood friend that I need to update her on everything that is happening in the newly arrived childhood friend's life. We see on facebook she has a new boyfriend and the job bringing her to the West Coast (from the East) is new, too. I said I would take notes, to which Vanessa said, "No, seriously, you should." So I guess this is how it goes now. The stories we were creating back in the days when all that was between us were two and a half well tread blocks are the ones I offer my new friends. It's the new stories of today I bring back to the old.

This is how it was, I sometimes say. Other times I say, this is how it is now. And everything bumps into each other, overlaps and ping pongs back and forth, a routine I learned a long time ago.

Comments

[elizabeth]

Nice post.

[Jessie Carty]

I keep in contact with so few friends from my childhood but love that you manage to keep up with a few and that you post this and now I'm gonna go stand in a friendship circle and sing :)