I need a hat, or maybe a scarf, to cover my butchered silver locks. I am thinking about wearing the gypsy garb as my friend Margie used to do at the flea markets. Long skirt and sandals, yards of filmy, glittery fabric in awesome colors, a dozen chains and beads 'round her neck, a scarf tied turban-style but with the ends flowing free.
Margie came to mind out of the blue the other day. When she walked into American history, a transfer student from Vincent, I knew we would become friends. Margie stood tall and confident, She had curly brown hair that hung to her waist and a pretty round face with huge eyes and long lashes. The boys were instantly aware of her...uh...attributes, and made no attempt to hide their admiration. The girls eyed her warily. So gorgeous and voluptuous; she must be a snob.
How wrong they were. Margie was intimidated by the new school, shy almost to a fault. She had a boyfriend she loved dearly. She was nice, really nice . We and Chris became fast friends. Those who thought of Margie as a beautiful snob were so, so wrong.
Margie drove a Studebaker. It was old, square, ugly and brown. The steering was a little off. One had to make allowances by turning the wheel halfway to the right to go straight. Nobody turned left unless absolutely necessary. It took the length of a football field to come to a stop, and that was using both feet on the brakes. No matter, the Studebaker rarely got over twenty-five miles an hour. How do I know all this? Because Margie gave me driving lessons day after day. My dad, an auto mechanic, would have grounded me for a year if he had any inkling of the condition of that car. I never told him.
Margie had moved from the west side of town to a big white house on 26th Street, We spent happy hours in her pink bedroom. An only daughter, she had tons of stuff I only dreamed of. She looked so much like a party girl, but not Margie. She was sweet, funny and smarter than a lot of people thought.
On graduation day, Margie said she would drive us to the ceremony. She would pick me up first, then we would get Chris. We hesitated. It was one thing to drive around town in the Studebaker, quite another to show up at Veteran's Stadium in full view of hundreds . Margie's eyes had that look of mischief. We finally agreed she could drive.
That evening I was so excited. We were graduating! No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks. I peered outside, no Studebaker. But there was Margie, emerging from a baby blue Cadillac! Her dad had not loaned her the car for the occasion, he had given it to her!
Imagine being seventeen, a not-so-well-off girl from down by the railroad tracks. Suddenly you are arriving in a spit-polished Cadillac in a golden cap and gown. You are elated because your future begins that day. What you don't realize until you are almost sixty is how much of your past ends the same night.
Chris got married and moved to New Mexico. We haven't been in touch in spite of growing up together since kindergarten. Margie still goes to flea markets. She is still beautiful, though she would argue the point. I haven't seen her now for a few years.
What happens to friendships like this one? How do we lose touch? You'll be hearing more from me on this topic.
Meanwhile, I'm going to try to find Margie.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: I picked up the newspaper today, May 8, only to find that Margie had left this earth on April 30, 2011. So I guess I did find Margie, my beautiful high school pal, just not in the way I had planned. RIP, Margie McLaughlin.
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