I’m sorry to hear that you tripped and fell while walking on brick sidewalks. You aren’t still wearing those gorgeous pointy stilettos, are you? After nursing a bloody elbow and a tweaked knee, I’ve grudgingly given up fun shoes for sensible footwear. I notice that younger women carry larger bags so they can change from their flats once they’ve safely reached their destinations. After sprawling like that, you’re lucky to have only a bruised knee and a few cuts on your hands. As my grandmother used to say, it can always be worse.
There is something about an old friend, a person who remembers you from junior high, who knew each member of your family, and can picture your childhood bedroom with the Dylan poster that came inside the blue “Greatest Hits” album, the stuffed animals and the record player that could spin both LP’s and 45’s. I met you briefly in seventh grade when you attended our school for a year. You returned during high school and stayed through graduation. In those days, you dressed in short black skirts before anyone else dared, and kept a pink frosted lipstick handy so you could apply it as soon as you left the building. Different from our fresh-faced classmates who were into following the rules, you didn’t mind asserting your individuality while jumping on the 60’s bandwagon: “…the times they are a-changin’…” We took the MBTA regularly from Cleveland Circle to Harvard Square so we could hang out at Nini’s Corner and try on Indian dresses at George’s Folly. We squashed ourselves into the instant photo booth at Woolworth’s. I still have the 2” by 2” candids of our heads pressed together. While I passed in perfectly printed history reports, you dashed yours off during morning assembly, right before class. Cross-outs here and smudges there didn’t seem to bother you.
We have stayed in touch. Even while you were studying for your doctorate in Cambridge, England, you tracked me down. Through your romance with your instructor whom you married and your babies who kept you awake at night, we wrote letters and phoned at odd hours. Often months passed, but we could always pick up where we had left off. Sometimes it pained me that you had chosen to live across the Atlantic, but the sporadic visits that I planned with my husband and kids were always fun. We could fly to Heathrow, take the train to Cambridge, and have an authentic European experience. You usually came to Boston each summer so you could check in with your family and catch up with the Epsteins. Once you came alone with your infant daughter and moved into our guest room. You needed a good listener and the ease of a trusted companion.
Years later when I received an invitation to a dinner celebrating your promotion to Professor of Neuropsychology at Cambridge University, I knew I had to be there. Who else in that room would have known you when you were an edgy teenager, willing to be just a little bit unusual? Your parents had passed away and your siblings couldn’t make it. I was too proud of you not to want to share your happiness. With your husband’s help, I schemed to surprise you.
Now you’re sending me clips of yourself commenting about the “smart pills” you’ve been researching. College students actually take medication meant for hyperactive children in their attempt to stay awake and study longer. News outlets, journals and universities seek your expertise. This week you will be lecturing at The University of Pennsylvania. I would like nothing more than to hop on a plane and listen to your talk, although your days sound incredibly hectic. Why is it that life crowds in heavily and being spontaneous becomes difficult? You would think that I have tons of time, but responsibilities multiply, as we grow older.
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