I left my home in England at what now seems such a young age. It was one week
before I turned 19. Boarding that plane at Heathrow airport was my window
to an exciting adventure which was to be short and sweet before returning home
and settling down. However, the one year I expected to stay and
work in the USA (Washington, D.C.) has now turned into fifty five! I still feel a pull
to my original home across the pond, and guess I always will.
This Christmas season, as always, I sat for many hours spread over several days,
writing cards. I love sending and receiving real cards for birthdays, special occasions,
and definitely at Christmas.
The cards I send to the UK have become a much smaller bundle now - many
older family members and friends now gone, and my only sibling lives in France.
I write a note inside, affix the international postage stamp, a holiday return
address label, and address each one with thoughts of them eventually being
dropped through a letter box across the pond.
Most of these people reply with a lovely card - always lots of chubby English
robins perched on holly, thatched cottages with lighted windows and such - but
for several years I haven't heard back from my friend Carol, who was
my next door neighbor for eleven of my special childhood years.
We shared the same birthday, she being a year younger, and many hours
together doing what little girls do such as sewing and dressing our dolls. We spent
hours on the beach after school, her mum meeting us with our swimsuits, towels
and tomato sandwiches. We used to meet up now and then when I visited
home and my family still lived next door to her family. The last time I
saw her was at my mother's funeral almost 15 years ago.
People move a lot now. A card went off to Somerset as always in early
December hoping it would reach her. . . . . a note enclosed saying how I missed
hearing from her and hoped she would get in touch.
hearing from her and hoped she would get in touch.
A couple of days ago I opened my e-mail and was heartbroken to read one
from her older son, Andrew, whom I've not seen since he was a boy.
from her older son, Andrew, whom I've not seen since he was a boy.
He had received my card, forwarded by the post office, in which I'd tucked
my e-mail address, and told me of his mum's death last year after his dad had
also died - both of them devastated over the loss of their younger son, a
lifetime diabetic.
He wrote such a nice note and attached some lovely photos.
He apologized for not getting in touch earlier - apparently Carol's address book
disappeared when she moved to a care home following her husband's death,
and she had Parkinson's disease - and said he'd like to hear back from me.
my e-mail address, and told me of his mum's death last year after his dad had
also died - both of them devastated over the loss of their younger son, a
lifetime diabetic.
He wrote such a nice note and attached some lovely photos.
He apologized for not getting in touch earlier - apparently Carol's address book
disappeared when she moved to a care home following her husband's death,
and she had Parkinson's disease - and said he'd like to hear back from me.
One certainly pauses after news such as this, wondering when, how, why, we
ourselves, will eventually die. I am so sad at the news, but also grateful that
Andrew took the time to write to me. . . . . . . .and of course I will be writing back
to him and sharing some of the history his dear mum and I shared as children.
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