Reflections on Dee

    She was a pretty good friend in third grade. We sat close to each other. We talked, we shared. We laughed and imagined. I think we had good things in common. As much as I had friends who were boys my age in my class with Mrs. Swinford at Elm Heights, or friends in my church or neighborhood, or family near and far that were my friends, Dee was a good influence on me. We liked each other as friends. I thought romantically of other girls, but Dee was my buddy. That is what I think. We could talk, and listen, and entertain. That does not always happen with everyone.

    Maybe because she was Jewish, different; her older brother was a swell guy, always highly spoken of. Thoughtful, smart, good. I liked what she thought of him, and said of him, most likely, and I yearned for the same consideration about me. Sure. We like to receive accolades and praise, to be accepted as good. Dee gave me some of that, then. Her parents were good and strong, Jewish studies professors. Survivors. Academics. Lived a mere three blocks away.

    We were further apart for the next two years, although still in the same classes. We grew into middle school. The sixth grade. Bigger school. Did we have art together that year? No, that year I met kids from other Bloomington schools. Jeannie and Sydney and David. The sixth-grade dance was a big deal; I danced with another girl first instead of Dee. Dee cried. I think that I danced with her later, but it was too late, I guess. I felt bad. Maybe not as bad as Dee. 

    Did we have band together? Did we both play the clarinet in Mr. Zorn's band? Maybe into seventh grade, but not afterwards for me. English was too important to me, as band removed me from Honor's English due to the schedule. Never again. I valued English and books over playing an instrument.

    We moved on to the bigger high school. We had art together as freshmen, last period. With Mr. Ackerson, the big, bearded man, like I had at Binford Middle School previous years. She liked a senior at my table named Gary, but that was just a phase. Gary was nice, but he was more of a country guy. He was not meant for Dee. I do not know if Dee or I were meant for art in those senses, but I think it was some kind of art. We wanted to be artists of some kind. 

    Writing. 

    I wanted to write then, now, in between. Dee wrote. She did accomplish this in her life. She wrote stories, and books. She is a writer.

    Our senior year we enrolled in a college writing class together at our high school. I was distracted, perhaps as normal, and my writing came slowly and painstaking, but Dee was complimentary. She said that she liked my writing, or that I was a good writer.

    I always wanted to be one, or do so movingly or convincingly. I am still of that ilk.

    I visited Dee after I graduated from college, after spending some time in the Holy Land. Dee was married, and it seemed her husband from Europe took more interest in me and my thoughts than Dee. 

    That was okay. Dee was older, I was older. She was married, I was trying to figure out who to marry, or how to marry, and I moved on. 

    We moved on and on. The century passed, I married, Dee divorced. My sister connected me to a mutual middle school and high school friend. He spoke of Dee in the Holy Land. That is where she lived. Now in the this century.

    We moved on deeper into the 21st century. I found myself overseas. Dee was over there too; I told her I was writing a book, or attempting to do it.

    She sounded supportive, but I think I have been reluctant with reasons to defer or refuse that help, reasons or excuses that stew up over a lifetime. But nevertheless, I have proceeded with the book. I have found another person who took interest in my book in the works. That is good.

    I mentioned Dee, and some of her bona fides.

    Now I write this, making note that in high school I bonded again with Dee, even twice. We came together multiple times where we talked or discussed some things, mostly the confidence that she had in me. That is what I remember. She believed in me: the Gentile, the Mormon, the Christian, the younger man unsure of himself and many other things.

    But we went on and here we are. 

    Still writing, and still wanting to write.

    And as Dee said, "I should have some good things to say."

    I hope she was right, then and now.

    Thanks for all that, Dee!