Life of Wry

Once upon a time… I went to kindergarten.  I had Mrs. Culp, a nurturing older woman who taught in Room #1 at Valmonte Elementary School in Palos Verdes Estates, California.

And so did Wendy.

We played on the playground, listened to stories, drank milk from the milk wagon, napped on roll up mats, and created creatures out of clay (sorry it’s blurry).  This is possibly my most favorite piece of art ever:

(Thanks for recognizing this as a hippopotamus.)

It’s signed by the artist (probably with help from Mrs. Culp herself), should there be any doubt as to its authenticity:

Anyway.

Wendy and I met in kindergarten, in 1960 or thereabouts.  We also were in the same first and second grade classes, with Mrs. Marshall and Mrs. Von Mueller.  We went all the way through elementary school, Malaga Cove Junior High, and high school, criss-crossing in hallways, locker rooms, classes, Brownies, and, of course, Girl Scout Troop #262.  We lost touch after graduating from PVHS in 1974; she went off to UC Berkeley and I to UC San Diego and hadn’t seen or talked to one another since (though we’d connected in recent years through Facebook).

Until today.  Wendy came to Davis for a visit and we caught up on the last 37 years.

Turns out, we share lefty political sensibilities and, we also learned today, an affinity for food coops.  We talked non-stop for four hours about people we knew and recounted experiences we had during our 18 years on the peninsula. I’m amazed, though, at how different our experiences were, how differently we perceived things, how personal and unique our realities were.  Funny, considering we lived in exactly the same era; shared the same spaces; went to the same libraries, stores and movie theaters; wandered the same streets; did so many of the same things; knew mostly all the same people…   and yet…  our narratives are so entirely different.

Maybe it was because she had older siblings and I had younger ones; or because her parents were democrats–her dad worked with Bobby Kennedy and was in the Ambassador Hotel when he was shot, and her mom campaigned for Save Our Coastline–and mine were republicans; or she was a singer and I was a jock.. who knows.

She said I was shy and quiet, which I guess is true. I think maybe I thought people didn’t notice that (I thought I was rather full of myself, but maybe only I knew I was full of myself).  I see perhaps where Peter gets his shyness and cluelessness. She told me she got in all sorts of trouble for speaking her mind, which I didn’t know then, but which I look back on now and admire.

We sat for the longest time on my dad’s memorial bench across the street from our house (which is appropriately situated under a eucalyptus tree) and looked at photos she’d brought.  It was a pretty moving experience.

Sigh.. it was that kind of morning, with a lot of that kind of sharing.  Interesting, illuminating, and so much fun.

I definitely remade a friend.