A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to a Story...

One of the things I love about Vocal challenges is the how they get me thinking about all sorts of stuff, musing about possibilities, wondering how to incorporate this or that random item into a story... I never knows where the journey will lead. Like, a funny story about a childhood friend, eh?

It's been a long time since I've seen any of my childhood friends – I've moved around quite a bit in my life, and am now living in Whitehorse, Yukon, thousands of miles from my childhood homes. There are three towns I lived in during what I would call my childhood years. Well, two small towns and a village, all in southern Ontario. (My dad was a bank manager, which in those days (the 60s) meant being transferred every few years, so we moved around a lot.) Elgin, the village – 321 is stuck in my mind as the population at the time – was the hardest one to leave.

We moved out the day after grade two ended, the first day of summer vacation. My sisters and I were crushed, totally deprived of glorious long, carefree days of summer with our friends, ripped away and forced to move hundreds of miles to instead spend months in some strangers' house while waiting for our own, living miles from town, knowing no-one.

The friend I most desperately missed was Cassie (names have been changed), my first best friend.

The village of Elgin in the 1960s offered an idyllic childhood. We kids played freely all over town, spending our days exploring, creating, being kids. We wandered around outside the deserted old Bell building, searching the ground for bits of coloured wire among the giant spools left behind, which we then turned into jewellery, rings and bracelets and more, depending on how much we found. We hung out on the porch of Grampa Jerry's store, after spending our nickel or dime allowance inside, peering intently through the glass at the colourful array of candies on offer, stretching our precious coins as far as they would go. Each box was labelled so many candies for a penny, or so many pennies for a candy. Three blackballs for one cent I clearly remember. And Wagonwheels were five cents each, so we only got those when we had at least a dime, because otherwise we weren't about to spend our whole nickel on only one thing!

Grampa Jerry's was at the beginning of the shortcut through the big field filling the main block, where the fair set up when it came to town. Here, let me draw you a map:

Yeah, not a very big town. It's grown since. But back then, Grampa Jerry's was kind of a central meeting place and hang out for all the kids in town, including those who were actually his grandchildren, which didn't include me. There was an outhouse out back, which was dangerous to use on account of the wasps that built nests in it. There was nearly always change to dig for in the couch, if you were lucky enough to get inside in the back. And there was Grampa Jerry, gruff but loving, always with time for us.

Grandma Catherine's, across the street, was another place we would all play. We made dolls outs of the hollyhocks growing in front, by the road, and picked currants from her bushes once she gave the word, so she could make currant jelly. In the winter the snow piled up especially deep around her house, so the braver kids would climb up on the roof and jump off into the drifts. Sometimes we even got to play inside her big, dark house, full of the memories of a big family growing, holding them still. There was even a back staircase, a sure sign of former grandeur!

In the evenings most of the kids in town would gather together for a game – our favourite was kick-the-can, and we usually played it in my family's backyard. Our yard was central and big, and had a small concrete pad that made a perfect 'home' for the game. You really didn't want to get picked 'it' in the counting out, because with that many playing, it was practically impossible to ever catch everyone before somebody kicked the can and everyone was free again. Especially because Markie had a way of hiding on and climbing over the garage roof, and as soon as you went a few steps from home, he would jump down and be right there to kick the can, and you had to run and get it while everyone else ran to hide all over again. We played night after night in the summer. In the winter we went toboganning on Green Hill, or skating at the rink.

Cassie didn't live in town, so wasn't part of the gaggle that hung around and played games after school and on weekends. Our play time was during recess at school, or on special days when my mom would drive me out to her place in the country, and we could play all day.

I think it was near the beginning of grade two when Cassie moved to the area. To tell you the truth, I don't remember meeting her, or becoming friends – I just remember being friends. We were at an age when we were becoming more aware of the larger world around us, and we were on the voyage of discovery together.

I remember the time we decided, against all rules of safety set by our parents, to test out a hatchet. We wanted to see how well it would cut different things. I think I was trying the hatchet on a coin when I nearly cut the tip of my finger off. Well, not quite that badly, but bad enough, and of course we tried to hide it, and wound my finger in layers and layers of toilet paper, which soaked through with blood no matter how much we used.

I think the extent of the wound did mitigate the punishment for the offense, when it was inevitably discovered, as we had both clearly learned our lesson. I did lose the nail, and the feeling in the tip of that finger for several years, but it's normal now.

Another day out at Cassie's place, a beautiful spring day when we were wandering in the forest near by, we came upon a bright, open glade filled with trilliums. White and pink, three-petaled flowers, so pretty they were, nodding gently on their stalks, hundreds of them, more than we'd ever seen! So we picked a nice big bouquet each, gathered as many as we could hold, and happily took them back to show her mom.

Who gave us a totally unexpected scolding, telling us we had Broken The Law. She refused to put the flowers in a vase, instead making us throw them away. Because as Ontario's provincial flower, trilliums are a protected species. Live and learn the harsh realities of life.

Our favourite game didn't usually get us in trouble. We had two dolls that we played with, ones I think we both got for Christmas. Mine was a small mermaid, and hers was even smaller, about an inch high, and fit inside a ring. At school, once the snow had melted in spring, we started building them a little town. Every recess and lunch hour we would go back to the same place, an out-of-the-way spot right against the school wall, and fall into our own little world.

We would get totally caught up in our play, in the stories we were enacting through our dolls, in the houses and roads and gardens we built for them. Just ignore all the school yard noise, and kids running by, and just imagine... Until the bell rang and we had to go back to the real world.

So one day we were, as usual, playing with our dolls in the little village we had created for them, totally wrapped up in what we were doing, tuning out the playground sounds around us, intent. Until we realized that there were no other sounds around us. We looked up, and there was no-one in sight. We stood up, and still there was no-one. We looked at each other in confusion. Had they all gone in? Had we missed the bell? How? We were right beside the school. It was a loud bell. But that must be what had happened.

Once we clued in, we grabbed our dolls and ran along the wall and around the corner, pulled open the heavy door and darted down the short flight of stairs to our classroom, which was right there on the right. We darted sheepishly into the room, sure we were in trouble for being late.

Mrs. James wasn't there. The classroom was abuzz with wondering where we all were, everyone swiveling in their seats, whispering to each other, asking aloud of no-one in particular, “Where are Christine and Cassie?” “Where's Mrs. James?” Then when they saw us, “Where were you?” but we were just asking them “Where's Mrs. James?” and sliding into our seats as fast as we could, supremely relieved to be spared any consequences.

Mrs. James came sailing into the classroom after we were safely seated, and we all got back to routine.

When my family moved away, Cassie and I exchanged those dolls. I had that tiny doll for years. And we kept in touch for years, I don't know how many, writing long letters to each other. Her family moved away from Elgin, too, but stayed in eastern Ontario. It's been more than 50 years since we last saw each other, more than 40 since we've had any communication. There's a lot one loses in a life spent on the move.

So what with all this rambling down memory lane, I decided to look Cassie up again. I've done it a couple of times before, since the internet became a thing, but got no promising hits. This time – !

I googled a shortened version of her name (her last name is rather long and unwieldy, and by the time we stopped writing letters to each other she had dropped the last three parts of it, and switched to Cass instead of Cassie as well). So I typed that in and much to my astonishment her full name popped up belonging to someone living in, of all places, Dawson City. I swear my mouth dropped open. Now I understand if yours didn't as well at that revelation – I'm not at all surprised if you're thinking “So what? What's so remarkable about that?” Well it's only a six hour drive from Whitehorse, where I live now, that's what's so remarkable! Which might seem a long distance to some, but after a lifetime of moving...! They're both up in the Yukon, the very north western corner of Canada, right up against Alaska (especially Dawson, which is within 100 km of the border, I think), and we went to school together more than 50 years ago in a very small town in Ontario half a continent and over 5000 km away! Crazy that we'd both wind up here at the same time.

If it's her. I don't know yet. I've sent a contact request, but maybe she's like me in that she doesn't really use social media that much, and might not see the message for days. Maybe it isn't her, though the picture looks about the right age, I think I can see the girl of seven in the woman now. Maybe she won't remember me.

Close to ten years ago, I ran into another childhood friend of mine from Elgin, one I have treasured memories of playing with, both at school and at his grandfather's huge old, taxidermy-hung house, and the wild gardens and woods around it. Magical days of delight... He didn't remember me at all. I was crushed.

Cass would remember me, if it's her. We wrote all those letters to each other for years after my family moved away.

And then I get the email:

“Cass just messaged you.”

My breath catches; my heart skips, then races.

What would she say? Is it her? Does she want to reconnect?

It's HER! It's her! It's her! It's her!

I'm so excited!

She answered, didn't say much, but that it's a wonderful surprise.

So I've sent another message, we'll see what she says. I hope I didn't scare her off.

So THANK YOU VOCAL! Thank you for having this challenge right now, and leading me on a trip down memory lane that has led to reconnecting with my first best friend. I don't know where we'll go from here, but the journey is never over.

This is a true story, unfolding as I write.

Update: Cass happens to be coming to town next week and we're getting together for dinner! I am so thrilled! Maybe it's silly to be this excited, but woohoo!