Nan P. has gone home for hospice. We went to high school together. We were pretty good friends. I dug out the old Southeast yearbooks and she always had something nice, sweet, and remarkably sincere to say. But as the years passed and distances grew, so did the gap between me and Nan P. When I think of her I think of kind and gentle words: sweet, humble, modest, unpretentious. Two things that leap to mind when I think of Nan P.: cars and hair. Her dad managed one of the car rental shops at the airport, so she almost always had a different car to drive on weekends. Usually it was a compact, but it was always something way cooler than the ’67 Impala that was my transportation destiny at the time. And hair: when the Farrah Fawcett hairdo came into vogue, Nan P. got her some mousse and a curling iron and embraced the moment. Her definitive high school hair was awesome. My curly mop would never approach mediocrity; Nan P. was tressed with greatness.
She was first diagnosed with breast cancer some months after our last high school reunion three years ago. I had no idea. Nor did a lot of people who think of her as a friend, including some still residing, as Nan does, in our home town of Wichita. I think it is Nan’s nature to not want to bother anyone, to not be a burden. In any case, a few weeks ago, via Facebook, I learned that she was again ill and had decided to enter chemotherapy. Her sister Katie, a classmate of my brother’s at SE, and their older sister Mary Lou and perhaps little brother Bill have posted updates at CaringBridge. It has been heartbreaking. One friend, Lisa, has taken the lead in making sure that many are aware of Nan’s condition. She has even arranged a Frank Good-style card shower (and if you are not from Wichita, I cannot explain it. Sorry.) and a rotation for making sure that Nancy gets fresh flowers every couple of days. What futile gestures from this physical and temporal distance, but I hope that Nan enjoys the attention. God knows she has never demanded, much less requested, any attention before.
So I find myself being pulled in several directions. One is back to Wichita. I have my high school yearbooks by my side. I have been cooking out of the Sunflower Sampler, the original and still champ-een Junior League of Wichita cookbook. What a trip down memory lane to see the names of the mothers of so many kids I went to school with, and made music with, and swam with, and went to church with, in that book. I think that maybe at one point in time I was aware that the Chicken Divan recipe was from Greg Pottorff’s mom. Who knows? It tastes wonderful and serves 8, so we had it around for a while.
I’m reaching out and trying to touch people I have let lapse from my life, and not all of them go back to high school days. One in particular goes back to Jr. High and College Hill United Methodist Church. Another is from my Westin days. And yes, there are some from Southeast. Will I ever be as close to these people as we were at one time? Doubt it, but you never know. One guy is living in a tiny town in North Central Pennsylvania. We went to church together and I always envied his music (particularly piano) skills. How the hell did that happen? Another guy is teaching in a suburban Wichita school district. Are they surprised to learn where I am? It’s not anything I would have projected, that’s for sure.
The other direction isn’t backwards or inwards, it is outwards. Or maybe ‘awaywards’ would be the proper word to invent for the occasion. I have the urge to go somewhere I’ve never been before, and someplace that I don’t think Nan P. has been to either. Uruguay? I fell in love with the name of the place in 4th grade. Ushuaia? Again, I love the name of the place. Hey, they’re both in South America, so maybe that could be one trip? Nevis, the birthplace of Alexander Hamilton, has long been on the bucket list. Back to London? In a heartbeat. Back to South Africa? Only if I can get beyond Joberg.
My darling husband asks only a few things of me when it comes to my computer habits. One is to stay off the Petfinder website after I’ve had a drink or two. He is concerned about my emotional health, which is one of the zillion reasons to love him. I also think he gets uneasy when I start trolling the exotic travel websites; for some reason he is in no hurry to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro before I hit the age limit. But I have found a good trip that I think is worth an investment in time and money. It’s a walking trip in Spain. Yes, I know how much a yet-untenured assistant professor makes at a public university. Yes, I know that my husband is still seeking a full-time gig. I am very well aware that we are closing on a house next week. But I have the urge to plan a trip. This particular journey traces the routes of pilgrims to the shrine of St. James in Compostela. A week’s worth of walking along the same paths that pilgrims have been following for well over a thousand years. I would hope that it is a worthy tribute to friends lost and found, and souls that we miss, and losses that make our heart ache from top to bottom.
Maybe a couple of summers from now?
http://www.wildernesstravel.com/trip/spain/el-camino-de-santiago-pilgrims-way-hiking
