This morning I phoned my first real sweetheart; we talk about once a month. I met Marguerite in high school geometry. Learning we lived just ten blocks apart, I began riding her bus after school, gallantly carrying her books. The next three years gave us many good things to remember.
In the fall of 1941, Bethel College and Seminary took to me to St. Paul and I lost track of Marguerite. I learned she married high school classmate Palmer Harbeson. Seventy three years later, during pre-church chitchat, I heard casual mention of Palmer. I jumped on it, discovering Palmer had died some years before and Marguerite lived somewhere in the Twin Cities. At home, I booted up White Pages on my computer and there she was: name, address, and phone.
Marguerite’s macular degeneration and my fake hips keep us at home, limiting contacts to the phone, though we did enjoy one brief face to face when the tall ships brought her family to Duluth.
Novelist Ruskin Bond wrote, “The past is always with us, for it feeds the present.” Marguerite and I laugh at our youthful foibles. She now worships in the Episcopal Church; I remain Baptist but without the trappings. She loved to dance; Baptists did not allow such worldly pursuits; a pity. I promised to dance with the girl from 313 at her oldest granddaughter’s wedding. Observing that, I guarantee, will be worth the price of the ticket.
Old Grandpa Lloyd