The other week I attended a breakfast honoring all the new Eagle Scouts in our Scouting District. Seated at the table with us was a man with his wife and son. Turns out Ron S. and I graduated from the same big suburban high school in 1985. Neither of us recalled the other. We laughed and said we’d have to dig out our year books.
As we sorted out the garage this week, deciding what to trash, donate or move with us Mr. W unearthed the plastic tote with our yearbooks. Yes, we’ve schlepped these book with us on every move (expect to Germany where they stayed in government storage stateside). Silly as the only time we look at them is when we pop open the box and skims through them each time we move. I pulled out the book for my senior year, flipped the pages and there smack next to my photo, the last two on the page, sat Ron S. Not a glimmer of recognition at seeing his youthful face. Yeah, it was the same guy I ate breakfast with, but as far as I know our paths never crossed twenty-seven years ago.
What funny twist and turns it took for Ron and I after we crossed that graduation stage those many years ago (I with about sixteen moves and having lived in five states and Europe) to end up in Portland, Oregon having breakfast together.