We decided to meet at a neutral location since we last saw each other in 1969.
Originally, we met in a town by a lake. Friday, we met by the ocean. It only made sense.
Lonnie is a teacher in southern Maine—music.
Of course, there was no way I could have known what he would do back then when we were learning primary colors and numbers while having a mutual crush on our kindergarten teacher, Ms. Gilmore.
She moved to Alaska after our whirlwind year at the Naples, Maine, school. I don’t know if Lonnie knew she had moved to Alaska, but I recall it. I’ve had no contact with her since June of 1969. Not that I haven’t waited for a card or a note, but I’m healing.
It is possible that she had more of an effect on Lonnie. I mean, since he went into the trade and all.
If you’ve read some of the stories from my first book, you might remember my ode to my bus driver, Richard. Lonnie and I talked about him yesterday over chicken and cheese enchiladas while sitting at a picnic table in Milbridge, Maine. It was a good visit.
We last ate together in the spring of ’69. A few months before man first walked on the moon. We celebrated that, too, for it happened in July of that same year.
We’ve seen some stuff, Lonnie and I.
Our reconnection only came from me falling into this writing thing.
Lonnie found my stuff; we swapped some emails, then phone numbers. Oddly, he was in the Marine Corps with my recently passed ex-brother-in-law. Lonnie told me he didn’t remember how my name came up in the 80s, but it did. Lonnie recalled me from kindergarten. It’s a small world. Maine is even smaller.
Lunch was good. The talk was good. Neither of us commented, but we are a lot heavier now. But I remember his face. I always remember a face.
After lunch, we talked while leaning on his tailgate. I am better at a tailgate than most other social situations. Lonnie was good too. We are just a couple of boys from Maine. We rode the same bus together, we did.
Lonnie believes he has a photo of our class from that year. He’s going to look for it when he gets home.
I told him when my house burned down in 1983, I lost everything, including my photos.
Lonnie went through his senior year in high school with that same group of kids. He shared their names, even some who had passed since then. I moved a lot. I met a lot of kids. I don’t have their pictures either.
Good thing I know Lonnie.
No, we didn’t get a picture together. We are boys from Maine, and I always remember a face.
Thanks for the meeting, Lonnie. I’ll see you soon.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
(You know, Lonnie’s friend)