Sunday, September 30, 2012

Jumping for joy.

Chapter One.

When I was about 5 years old, I thought I was Dale Evans.  (Vestiges of that remain as I am loathe to remove my cowboy boots generally from October through the end of April.  Then I prefer to be as close to barefoot as I can get.)

My parents were so on my wavelength that they bought a swingset with Trigger and Buttermilk as the slider seats.  I was in heaven.  The little boy down the street, whose name was Terry Joy, happily fulfilled the role of Roy Rogers.  If my memory serves correctly, he sported a cowboy hat, packed a plastic pistol, and wore rubber cowboy boots.  (In fact, the heel of one of those boots ended up in my mouth as I, patiently waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase at school, watched, mouth agape, as he slid down the banister.  Not stepping out of the way in time, I lost a front tooth and a little dignity.)

I don’t remember much about him after kindergarten.  He must have moved away.

Chapter Two.

Fast forward to this week. I was at Presence having a lively conversation with one of my customers.  She talked about how much she loved her palomino horse and I immediately went into a lovely reverie about Roy, Dale, Trigger, Buttermilk and Terry Joy.  I hadn’t thought of him in years.

The next day, another customer and I were talking about high-school reunions.  I said that I never went to them because I now lived on the west coast and most of my classmates were still back east. I didn’t keep in touch with enough of them to warrant my traveling back.  Besides, I joked, I didn’t want to be the only single one there.  She guffawed at that one and said, “Are you kidding? A lot of people go back and end up finding out that their childhood sweethearts are available and a lot of fabulous romances do get sparked.”

So, with my own personal Roy Rogers recently on my mind, and what sounded to me like a challenge from her, I said I would search for him on Facebook.

Chapter Two and a half.

So I found someone that could have been him.  Looked possible.  Lived back east, graduated about the same time I did, but didn’t mention Peterborough.

Okay.  I admit.  I was curious. I bit the bullet.  I wrote him and asked if by any chance he hailed originally from Peterborough.  Because if he did, then I told him I had a great story to share.  And, Terry (yes, you, the one who I know is reading this), you need to know that my motivation was not to spark a fabulous romance, but to answer a question about why I wanted to know where my Roy Rogers had gone. Was it just to get some reassurance that synchronicity is alive and kicking? Whatever… it was a strong enough impulse that I couldn’t not do it.

He wrote back and said he wasn’t from Peterborough originally, but that there was a family cottage close by.  Did that qualify to hear the story?  We are now friends on Facebook and I suspect that we will continue to communicate.  At least until he hears the tale!

Chapter Three.

I am going to send this to him.

Branded by unbridled joy,

Buns xo

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