As I put my groceries in my car in the parking lot, I noticed the auto sitting close behind mine. The personalized license plate on the Buick must belong to my old friend, Sandy. It had been a while since I’d seen her so I sat in my Chrysler for a few minutes waiting for her to exit the store. I would catch up chatting with her if she had a few free minutes.
I’d met Sandy when we attended the Putnam country grade school. She’s two years younger than I am We graduated from the same, small high school, settled in the Durand community and belonged to the same. monthly, bridge club for about forty years. Otherwise, we haven’t moved in the same circle of friends. It seems like we would run into each other often but it doesn’t happen.
When she came to her car, I got out and greeted her.
She said, “I don’t recognize you.”
It seemed odd considering how long we’d known one another but I really shouldn’t be surprised. Sometimes I hardly realize that octogenarian I see in the mirror the last thing before I go to bed is me. I repeated my name.
When Ken and I were selling my memoir, “The View from a Midwest Ferris Wheel,” at craft and book fairs, we exhibited photos from his stint as a sailor wearing his dress blues and my high school graduation so people would get the idea that the story was about our seven-year courtship during the 1950s.
I hate to admit I don’t recognize someone I haven’t seen for a while, especially if they call me by name. I’m sure the vagueness in my eyes and the comments I made give me away.
Do you readily admit that you don’t recognize an old friend that you meet after a long time apart?
I really don’t have the opportunity for this to happen here in Madison, or at least, I don’t recall this happening.