My oldest friend, Becca Deysach, knows more embarassing things about me than I care to acknowledge. If my memory were more potent, I might be able to drag up more dirt on her, but it’s really more fun letting the balance tip this way.

The memories that I do have of being small and in her house are mixes of cooking smells and the musty porch with the old, worn elk head on the wall, a colorful fabric ceiling in the livingroom, zipping across the backyard on the cable-and-pulley, Christmas parties with Michael Jackson’s Thriller LP on the record player. Later on, in the next chapter of memories, I am sitting on the couch with Becca and other childhood friends remembering Becca’s dad Larry after his funeral. They are snippets mostly, all of them wonderful, happy memories.

I don’t keep up very regularly with Becca, but our moms are good friends, and we hear about each others’ exploits through our communication with our own mothers. Through that grapevine, I just read this wonderful article that Becca wrote. In it, she introduces me to another side of her family that I have always known was there, but I had never seen it so well articulated. Beautiful.

This entry was posted on Friday, March 18th, 2005 at 2:28 pm and is filed under General. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.