|You Can Go Home Again-A Second Chance at a Happy Childhood|
|Thursday, 02 December 2010 16:39|
I joined my high school alumni association, Eagle Rock High School, S’58, Pericleans, sea foam green and black, pegged skirts, and wavy page boy haircuts, bobby sox and mary janes.
For a long period of time I had been getting emails of the passing of one Periclean after another, and with each passing, my chance of growing a happy high school experience diminished.
Then I wrote in response to one of those emails, that I was celebrating my later years, how the last ones have been creative and full of some sense of wonder; that my memoir was coming out, that I lived in a glorious place, the high desert, in the country and that life, for me, was joyous.
Much to my surprise, classmates of mine wrote back changing my topography, my very geography of my new high school experience. What I remembered as being isolated and lonely was suddenly being repopulated with friends, a couple who even remembered me from elementary school through high school, when at that point I lost touch.
One of my Hebrew school friends wrote to me about how he got the book, read it and found himself on page 80. I was deeply touched.
Then another who wrote to me was in the orchestra with me, one of my most memorable experiences because I loved violin and what it stood for in my family lineage of violinists -- a commonality, a strength, a connection.
Another who pointed out that we led parallel lives, with a fondness for each other.
A man who reminded me that we attended elementary school together, and although our lives took divergent paths, we had writing in common.
One woman reminded me that we had a close bond in elementary school and she loved me then and still loves me now.
Again and again, one after another reached out to me, reading the memoir, celebrating our lives apart and in some ways very close together.
We are spread over the country and up into Canada. We have children, grandchildren, and perhaps even great grandchildren. Some of us rejoice in the children of others.
If I tried to orchestrate a return performance of a period I remembered as being quite painful, I could not have even imagined it.
Now I must differ with a writer who said you can’t go home again, because now I have.
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