My intentions have been good, but my schedule much too hectic: volleyball on Sunday evenings, a film series which I host at the library on Monday, a dart league on Tuesday, a photography class on Wednesday, and my evening shift at the library's reference desk on Thursday. Not to mention my usual Monday through Friday work schedule (plus one Saturday a month). And of course there is always at least one social commitment on the weekend. No wonder the time passes so quickly. Everything is a blur; I don't have the time to focus on anything.
Much of the writing I have done lately has been composed with an eye to publication. Early in January I resurrected the rough draft of an article detailing the development (i.e. the rise and fall) of the automobile tourist camps between the years 1910-1930. I know it sounds like a terribly obscure subject, but the research, which was undertaken when I was still living in Springfield, provided me with many fascinating hours of literary research. I've mailed prospectuses to various publications, to no avail. In the meantime, I'm building quite a collection of rejection slips.
Another long article I wrote for a specific magazine was returned with the disheartening news that the title had recently folded. I see no need to get discouraged, though. After all, I'm just a novice at this. I do wish there was more time to devote to this hobby. Sitting down to write for eight or ten hours at a stretch allows me to experience a feeling of unbounded exhilaration, a pure high so unlike the instant gratification supplied by drugs and alcohol.
On the last Saturday of 1980, I wrote our old friend Mark a long, rambling letter that covered various aspects of my life since our Christmas with him four or five years ago. I spent more than eight hours composing the letter. Ever since I discovered more than a year ago that he is listed in the D.C. phone directory, I have wanted to write to him. If I was originally afraid of having nothing to share, my fears were quickly assuaged. Mark was so impressed with the contents of the letter that he called me a week or so after receiving it. He called on Monday evening, which meant that I was not at home due to the busy schedule I described in the opening paragraph.
When I returned home late that evening, my sister casually mentioned that Mark had called. One of my best friends in Oshkosh answers to the name of Mark, so I just as casually asked Barb if he wanted me to return his call right away. Mark is a teacher in a middle school in Little Chute, 30 miles northeast of Oshkosh, and, because of his long commute, tends to go to bed early. Barb immediately realized that a point of confusion had arisen, which she cleared up by adding a surname with which we are both familiar: Van Volkinburg.
I wasn't able to return Mark's call until the weekend. I wanted to be sure of having an uninterrupted block of time in which to renew a faded friendship.
We talked nearly an hour about ourselves, our families, our friendships, our jobs, and our immediate and future goals, along with the usual chitchat. Mark sounded so relaxed and confident and assured. It was such a pleasure sharing this leisurely conversation with him.
Mark is obviously doing quite well financially. D.C. is not a cheap place to live and he recently purchased a newly renovated townhouse. We both expressed a growing fascination with Warren, especially its cozy location and impressive late 19th, early 20th-century architecture. He still makes frequent visits to his parents' home. We should attempt a Memorial Day reunion. Barb and I are planning to spend a week in Warren at that time anyway.
Speaking of Barbs. Barb Lucia is now permanently ensconced in Boston. How can this be? Are the mad dashes between Warren and Beantown now at an end? As far as I know, she sold her share of the Pennsylvania Avenue West homestead, which both Danny and Timmy are determined to sell. Danny has found a new home in Bloomington, Indiana, and Timmy seems to have settled in Jamestown for the time being. Obviously, nobody attaches much sentimental value to the house. Barb certainly didn't enjoy the responsibilities of home ownership living there for the year or so after her father's death.
How strange it must to be to have both parents die at a relatively young age. I know I would experience a severe and continuous sense of loss, especially since my present relationship with my parents is as close as it has ever been.
Since last summer I have kept up a regular, (on the average) bi-weekly correspondence with them, but not of the "Hi. How are ya? I'm fine. Today I..." variety. I am amazed at how much I have opened up with them. The candor has even carried over into our personal relationship. Shortly before my return to Wisconsin last September, my brother Lar and I took our folks out to dinner at a recently opened restaurant in Jamestown. We enjoyed a leisurely three-hour meal during which time the conversation never became trite or forced. I can recall Sunday dinners at home when I was much younger when it seemed that nobody uttered a word; we kids solemnly ate our meal, wolfed down a couple servings of dessert, and asked to be excused, leaving our parents to their own after-church conversation. We were such conversational clods with our parents then.
Barb wrote to me in late October, in response to a letter I had written to her shortly after my vacation. (I missed seeing her in Warren by a day. She left for Boston on the Saturday before Labor Day.) With whatever settlement she received from her father's estate, she is now going to school, finishing up her undergraduate degree requirements and perhaps even continuing in a graduate program related to her field of interest. Child psychology, isn't it? She finally appears to be making some progress with her life. No more drifting like a little, lost anachronistic flower child. Barb is an intelligent woman; her biggest problem has been a lack of motivation.
Mardi and Marti moved to Jamestown shortly before Christmas, yet another change of address that they had been contemplating for months. Marti is now closer to his place of employment in Falconer and farther removed from a growing annoyance in Warren, namely Yolanda. The relationship between the two of them has been deteriorating since day one (i.e. Mardi and Marti's wedding). I've heard some very disturbing rumors -- third-hand -- about a concurrent deterioration between a certain husband and wife, which Barb confirmed. The rumors include loud arguments broadcast throughout the neighborhood, threats of physical abuse, and untended children (the twins).
Have you ever seen Jeremy and Ryan? Ever wonder why they are so blond? Barb and I have many times. Mardi visited Bill in Minneapolis in early 1977, but she insists that it was definitely more than nine months before her delivery date. Mardi has never been able to fully convince Barb of this fact, and I will forever remain totally skeptical. I only saw Mardi and Marti twice during my various short stays in Warren during September. It made 1964 seem like centuries ago. Mardi has lost almost all trace of her once enchanting beauty.
I'll never forget the first time Mardi walked into my life. We were assigned the same homeroom in ninth grade. At the time I was still going steady with Mary Sandblade, a juvenile romance that since the fifth grade had experienced many up and downs. We finally parted company in January of 1965. Thereafter I was determined to win Mardi's affections and employed Tina as matchmaker. I remember asking Mardi to a dance; she accepted; I was walking on air. We actually had a very good time together; I recall feeling surprisingly relaxed. Once the dance concluded, I walked her home -- it's a long way to the West End from Beaty -- on a cold and drizzly night and felt wounded when she didn't ask me inside just to warm up for a few minutes before returning home. At that point I suppose I realized what my chances were but preferred to live out a fantasy. Mardi made me melt. I loved to be near and feel the warmth of her dusky beauty.
The following Monday in school I walked Mardi to her first period class. She seemed rather stiff, uncommunicative. I carried on a monologue as we walked down the hall together. The next day she handed me a note as we left homeroom together. I didn't need a seer to tell me the contents. Not wanting to be publicly humiliated, I walked her to her class despite her initial protest, but now even I had nothing to say. I was crushed. I never wanted anyone as much as I wanted Mardi.
It is to each other's credit that one year later we were able to initiate a long, rewarding friendship, one that is at an unfortunate low point at this time.
Do you realize you are the first person with whom I've shared the details of this story? Such tragedy in my life, hey?
If you promise to write, I'll tell you about a hot new romance. Actually, there's nothing to tell yet. I spent an hour in conversation with this woman I've known casually for the last year and a half. It's obvious to me that we were both sending out signals to each other. She's tall (5'11"), articulate, attractive, well-groomed, intelligent, athletic -- and patient. I'm busy this weekend; she's busy next weekend, but two weeks from today...a quiet dinner someplace, an opportunity to tell each other about ourselves. Ooh-la-la! Sounds like this kid is falling in love. Actually, I think it's about time. At 31, the single life is starting to become increasingly boring and lonely. There's always room for a steady, serious relationship.
We really need to correspond more frequently. Easier said than done, I suppose. I know you are as busy as I am, so I'll settle for the infrequent contact. I am still willing to meet you and Morrey in Chicago any time you plan a visit there. I have relatives in the suburbs so there is no problem with my finding a place to stay.
Keep in touch. Who knows what stories I'll have to tell next time.
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