A week or so ago I opened my work email, expecting to see the usual administrative messages and maybe even a question from a zealous student. Instead, there was only one message--a clear indication that I was the only one checking or dealing with college emails the week between Christmas and the new year, and no, I was not really a zealous student--anyway, glancing at the email roster my first reaction was confusion at reading the name of a friend I last talked to in Chicago circa 1982.
Still operating from the from-student-email expectation my brain did one of those negotiating double takes; that feeling of being in two places at once, only they don't match up. In the instant it took to put things in mental order I realized I'd been found. You know. Found: The result of one of those late night, slow afternoon or procrastinating moments when you think, "I'll look up...." and go on to google their name, all to often finding people who, what a surprise!, are the age you were when you last saw that person. Yeah. They are not 25 any more and neither are you. And so you go on with your life until the next time.
Occasionally, though, such searches meet with success, and there you are, faced with the hey, is this really you? email. I actually like these emails, and certainly like them much more than the old school phone call. After all, if things go bad with the email they do so from a distance, whereas if they go bad with the phone call they can go really bad. Some years ago, before google and facebook (this is beginning to sound like a fairy tale, but it is not, or at least not one of the pretty ones), a friend and I decided to look up someone we knew from Chicago. Same era, different person than the recent finder. The last thing we knew about her was her exhusband's name, and sort of the area he came from. I suppose we called directory assistance, or "information" as it was called then, and Voila! we had a phone number.
I offered to make the call. After all, it being her
exhusband there could be some awkwardness. I was willing to deal with that. "After all," I said, "how bad could it be? And if it's too weird I can always just hang up." I called. A woman answered. I sort of started explaining my mission, in that hesitant way that such conversations go, quickly establishing that she was his mother, and almost as quickly that she had not heard from the exwife in years, and did not know where she was. Sorry. So, ever the tenacious (re)searcher I asked if perhaps I could speak with her son, the exhusband, in case he knew where she was. "He is dead," she said, "He died three months ago."
Okay.
Okay. That is how bad it can be. And who could just hang up at that point. Bad enough that he was dead, but he was barely dead. Just dead. Newly dead. And here I was, an unknown weirdo on the phone not even looking for him, but asking his mother about his exwife.
"Well," I said to my friend, calling her back to report, "remember we wondered how bad it could be? Bad. Real bad. In fact, it could not be much worse." Needless to say, we discontinued our looking people up activities for a while.
So, email is way easier. And I was so excited to hear from this friend (who had been the subject of several such failed search attempts over the years), that I emailed back right away. And he replied. Along with biographical catch up stuff he mentioned that he had seen this blog, and made a complimentary comment about my pictures. Well, let's just say I don't think mistook my daughter's picture for me, but who knows? Anyway, I then realized those pictures are several years old. They should be updated, I know, but I have to do a bunch of computer stuff or it is a real pain, so I don't do it. And so, time goes by.
At some point it is certain that none of us will look remotely like those pictures. And that seems rather unfair, I think, to those who might happen on the blog. After all, I really do not want to be a living version of what I call the "oh, dear," obituary, the one where you take a look at the picture, think how too bad it is that someone that young died, glance at the obit and see the person was 103! What happened? Did no one take their picture for 60 or 70 years? Did they plan in advance and never update the plan? Whatever, I do not want to be the blog version of that.
For now, though, be assured, I look pretty much the same as in those photos, or at least I
think so. Sure, those of you who know me in real life may be saying, enjoy thinking that. Updates in a while, then. A while. But, when does a while become too long a while? Leaving that question unanswered, all I can say is caveat emptor, well, not emptor, exactly. Perhaps caveat searcher, but with less of a caveat by email than by phone. Be glad for that. After all, how bad could it be?
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