Can you hear a pin drop or a heart cry?

I've been reading a really great book, Seven Thousand Ways to Listen--Staying Close to What is Sacred by Mark Nepo.   Granted, I haven't gotten far in it--one of those books that I take slowly and underline a lot! 

I think that on a day-to-day basis, most of us listen at a very surface level.  We easily get distracted by the many stimuli in our environment.  I have a friend who often asks me to repeat the first three or four words of a statement I've just made--she doesn't initially pick up until I'm half-way through.  Yep, I've been known to do that...

This author suggests that listening is about connecting with everything around us (not just people)--hearing the breeze rustling through the leaves; the sound of scampering animals in the forest; listening to the sound of waves on the ocean shore.  What are they saying?  What story do they have to share that we need to know?  All of this puts us in touch with our environment, which ultimately teaches us to take care of it because we're all intimately connected.

Of course, when we think of listening we most often think of people.  And the usual excuses for not hearing or not listening is:  But they're boring; they drone on and on, etc.  And, in some cases, that's true.  However, Stephen Covey suggests that "most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply."  I've been guilty of that as well.

I also know that it is a gift to the other person when I truly listen--listen with my soul--to what the words are telling me about them and their needs; about who they are at their very core.

Mark Nepo suggests:  To awaken our heart through the reverence of listening strengthens the fabric that knits us all together.

The world could sure use more of that now, couldn't it?  I have sooo much to learn... 

 

One Last Visit...

            I enjoy waiting in airports.  People-watching is a favorite pastime.  One usually hears more complaints about layovers spent in uncomfortable seats, listening to whiny children, and having bad food, but I sense I’ve been placed in a lovely, parallel world. 

Today is such a day for me.  As I look around I see busy people hurrying along, starry-eyed lovers, and excited children. What a cute couple with that adorable dog in its little case.  Maybe they’re taking the grand-dog to visit grandparents.  The lady in the burqa.  Does she wears it willingly?  Is it comfortable?  I see a flight arrival on Air Italia and watch nuns walk out into the concourse.  Aren’t those Italian nuns also wearing burqas? 

            I have a three-hour stopover until my plane takes off for Toronto.  I decide to get a bit to eat while I have time. 

            I no sooner sit down than I see a man walking towards me.  My heart does a flip as he stops at my table and asks if he may sit down.

             

            “Yes, of course,” I respond trying to keep my voice at a normal tone.

           

He picks up the menu and asks, “What are you having?”

I start to answer but my mouth feels dry.  I lick my lips and try again.  “I think I’ll have tea and a salad.”

“So you still don’t drink coffee.”

“Well, not in public places.  I want more flavored creamer than coffee and they kind of frown on that in restaurants.”  He smiles.  A nice smile.  I remember it well.

“So where are you going?”

“Toronto—I’m giving a workshop at a conference.  And you?  Where are you headed?”

“To parts unknown,” he says with a faraway look.  “How are the Girls?”

“They’re doing well, though they still miss you a lot.  Your name comes up easily and often.”

We order and there is silence for several seconds as we realize we're looking intently at one another.  "I'm so sorry--I was a fool." he began.

“And I—I’ve wished so many times the tapes could be replayed, the times relived.  I’m sorry as well.”

Our food comes.  As we eat, we make jokes about passing travelers and where they might be going.  On a honeymoon?  To a Republican rally?  No, it would be Democratic.   We laugh--we’d never agreed on politics.

He looks at his watch.  “Well, I guess I’d better be going.”  He reaches over and touches my hand.  The look in his eyes is warm and caring, but his hand feels cold on this sunny June day.

We get up and I start in the direction of my Gate.  Almost immediately, I stop and turn to see him one more time.  The concourse for the first time seems almost empty.  He is nowhere to be seen.

I look down at the hand he’d just touched.  I feel the tingle again.  We’d finally said goodbye.  And then I remembered--today was the 5^th anniversary of his death.

Tears, and a sweet remembrance...

On Sunday, several friends and I went to Camelot Theater in Talent to see Driving Miss Daisy.  Really well done on a small stage!  The acting was wonderful!!   But beyond that, I was touched by the entire play because it put me in touch with Mother and years gone by--cantankerous, insistent-on-her-way, and in the end, allowing a gentleness to come forth.  As I stood with others for the ovation at the end, it was good to feel my mother near.

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 12

            The summer months went quickly.  Millie hosted friends from university years who loved the plays and musical productions in Southern Oregon.  September brought new classes which she enjoyed taking--an opportunity to meet people and keep her brain alive.  Being a teacher for so long, Millie always combined fall with new beginnings.

            One Thursday afternoon in late October, Sara called.  “A bit of a surprise for you, Millie.  This morning, a couple invited me to join them while they ate breakfast.  I asked questions, as I always do, about their careers.  The man said he’d been with the Southern Poverty Law Center before he retired.  Of course, I asked him if he knew a Robert Robbins, and he said he did.  He told me the last information he had was that Robbie had purchased property on Orcas Island.”

            “You mean, Sara, that Robbie could be just hours north of me?”

            “I know it seems incredible!  I’ve done a bit of research on the internet, but so far can’t find out anything more.”  They chatted for another 10 minutes and hung up.

            Millie was determined she would not get excited.  She’d lost sleep on numerous nights over the last few months and that didn't play well with her moods or energy. 

            Warm autumn weather lasted through the middle of November.  Millie was beginning to put together her Thanksgiving menu—inviting friends was something she looked forward to each year.  She was also expecting Sara later in the day.  Better get some last minute tasks done.

            An hour later, with a glass of wine in hand, Millie sat down to await Sara.  Just then Gilly began his usual bark-greeting.  Millie’s reprimand couldn’t be heard over the noise of the dog.  She stepped to the front door to yell for him to be quiet, when she saw a car she didn’t recognize.  Just then she noticed movement coming from around a tree.  She saw a man, but because of the sun, his face was hidden.  Then all at once Millie knew.  “Robbie?”   

            A deep voice came from a distinguished looking man, “Maybe I should have called,” followed by a big grin—the same beautiful smile.

            All Millie could get from her mouth was, “Oh Robbie…” as she walked over and put her arms around him.  “I can’t believe it—after all these years.”  They just stood there each looking into eyes that brimmed with tears—yet neither were embarrassed. 

            “So Sara must have located you.   I can’t believe it.  I just can’t believe it.”

            “Yes, I’m thinking you have a really persistent friend.   When I first talked with her, I couldn’t imagine that you were so close!  And then she thought we needed to surprise you.  And that’s about it.”

            Millie figured the story was much more complicated than that, but it could wait.  They had so much to catch up on.  So much time had passed.  So much had happened in each of their lives….    At that moment, she thought of Price Pritchett's words, "Change always comes bearing gifts."   Yes,  we can be friends now--openly, publicly--no longer hiding, no longer Black and White.

                                     The End -- Or Not... 

                         

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 11

            “Hey, Lady, you don’t look the worse for wear!”  Sara laughed as she saw Millie enter the kitchen the next morning.

“I can’t believe there’s not a hint of a headache.  I don’t remember when I’ve had so much wine!”

They both turned as the sound of voices could be heard from the reception area.  “Let me take care of those check-outs.  This may be a busy morning.”

“Sara, I do plan to leave today, but let me help you this morning.”  Sara had a staff, but during the busy season, extra arms came in handy.  Millie dusted and sanitized and washed bedding for the next few hours.

She loved the way Sara had so carefully decorated each room.  Themes dominated the décor—Victorian, traditional cottage, sea coast, sunflowers, shabby chic, Tuscan—and each space with its own unique view of the surrounding landscape.  Helping Sara gave Millie an excuse to enter these restful spaces.

Now back in the kitchen, “Thank you, Sara, for all your listening.  I’ve never shared the Robbie part of my past.  I don’t want to drop the idea of connecting with him, if that’s even possible, but I feel so much better now than when I arrived yesterday.”

            “Millie, I feel privileged that you told me the story.  AND, I really appreciate your help this morning.   Why not consider staying and working full time?”

            Millie laughed.  “You do understand that my enthusiasm for said work comes because it’s a temporary, volunteer position, don’t you?  If I had to do it everyday, I’d be your number one slacker!”

 

            “I keep thinking those ideas will surface for me—that I’ll get tired of all this work and just want to step away from it.  And it’s true I hire more of it done all the time.   But I just love the people and their stories—honeymoons, secret get-a-ways, families—everyone has a story, and they’re all so interesting.  My life would be dull without hearing their tales most every day.”

            “You’re just so great with people, Sara.  This is where you belong.  Thank you again that I could unload my woes on you.  Maybe I’ll never find out what happened to Robbie.  I have lived this long without knowing, so I guess I’ll manage the rest of my life if that’s what's to be.”

                           To be continued…

           

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 10

Millie in Kenya…

 

            Six months after Sara returned Stateside, Millie married a Kenyan—Amos Kumunya.  She had known him for several years, and they’d been good friends.  His family, of the Kikuyu tribe, lived in their upcountry shamba in the Central Province.  Amos was educated in England because an uncle, whose wives were unable to produce sons, offered to educate him.  Upon returning to Kenya, he was hired as head master at a boarding school outside Nyeri.  He wanted to work with the rural population—who were mostly illiterate.  Amos knew a difference could only come through education—he and Millie spent hours discussing how to go against family and culture to make changes.  Millie respected and admired Amos long before she realized she loved him.  And perhaps Sara’s leaving enabled her to take the step of commitment that before she’d been hesitant to make.

            Amos and Millie had five wonderful years together—remarkable in the values they shared and the enthusiasm they inspired in one another.  Millie taught in a rural school.  While she was highly suspect, and watched by both male and female colleagues—fearful of her feminist ways—she was also respected, because they saw her love for Kenya and the children at the school.

            Millie and Amos lived in a small house just north of Nyeri.  Simple in structure, it did have indoor plumbing—a luxury for that area.  They also had a phone—which rarely worked.

 Amos had left early for a meeting in Nairobi—a 5 hour drive from their home.  Millie expected him to return by 9 that evening—the next day was their 5^th wedding anniversary and they had plans to go to Nakuru to visit friends. When he didn’t return, and with the phone not working, Millie presumed his meeting had lasted late and Amos decided to drive home the next day.

However, in the early morning hours, a policeman from Nyeri arrived to tell Millie there’d been a road accident.  Amos had been killed instantly.  He had also been robbed—his car and his body stripped of everything—a common occurrence in Kenya.

 

            Millie’s gift to him that anniversary was to tell him she was pregnant.  They’d often talked about having children, but it just never seemed to happen.  Would he have waited to come home the next morning if he’d known?  Millie never knew that child—she miscarried a few weeks after Amos’ funeral.

 

            Millie felt her spirit broken.  Sara flew to Kenya as soon as she heard.  Millie had no close family—her parents, ironically also killed in a car accident.  In the end, she decided to return to the States, moving in with Sara and her husband, Hank, for the first couple of months—needing to familiarize herself once again with American culture.

 

Millie got a job as a researcher in women’s studies at the university where Sara and Hank taught.  With that small income and grants for further studies, Millie found a small apartment and immersed herself in school work.  Three years later, with PhD in hand, she obtained a position at Oregon State University.

  Heading north, out of the warm California sunshine, Millie began her life once again in Oregon.

               To be continued…

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 9

            Sara was bent over her computer as Millie entered the room.  “Don’t tell me you’ve been on that since I went upstairs!”

            “You know, research can become addictive—especially online.  Legitimate sources don’t want to give out information, and questionable sources are more than willing to tell anything for a price.”

            “Were you able to find something?”

            “Well, I did find out that your Robbie spent most of his years with a full or part-time connection to the Southern Poverty Law Center.  He retired in 2006 but I can’t seem to find out where he went from there.”

            Millie looked down at Gilly’s wagging tail.  Smelling the coastal air sent him into an ecstatic state.  “Why don’t we take the dogs for a walk on the beach?   It’ll wear them out and they’ll sleep tonight.”

            They walked along the shore as the dogs ran into the water then raced to get away from the incoming tide.  Sara put her arm around Millie’s shoulders.  “Sweetie, we’ll work on this more tomorrow when we’re both fresh.  Now, more wine that will bring the courage to continue!”

                                                   

            Sara, the Courageous—a nickname she’d earned during their years in Kenya.  Millie, the idea person, needed Sara, the courageous one, to help carry her creative thoughts to fruition—going to locations the State Department orders had discouraged; getting involved in women’s cultural issues that were forbidden in those years; and driving all over Kenya on horrible roads and alongside even worse Kenyan drivers—who usually passed their driving tests by way of chai—bribery.

            As independent as they both pretended to be, they relied completely on one another.  In fact, realizing that fact was what convinced Sara to return to the States.  As difficult as it was for both, they knew it was the right decision.

            But of all they shared, Millie had never told Sara about Robbie.  Those precious memories of Robbie stayed with Millie alone—until now.

            Gilly and Arthur, Sara’s beautiful mutt—who showed at least four breeds, along with white, black and brown fur in meandering patches—were exhausted after an hour’s run on the beach.  They all made their way back to the house.    Laughing, the women concluded the on-guard-protector in the dogs would certainly not be on duty that night.

            Dinner consisted of hummus and homemade baked crackers and wine—several glasses in fact.  Millie couldn’t remember when she’d had so much wine in one day.

 

By the fireplace that evening, they reminisced about Kenya—reminding one another of situations and events that brought both laughter and tears—the wine probably adding to the emotional climate. Remember when the Kikuyu elder in the village came to ask us why we were talking with the women?  And the man who asked us to take him to America and he would be our servant?  Remember the old mzee who took us to his home and told his wives they must not be like us because we were too independent?  They discussed returning—something they would never do, but the thought at that moment sounded exciting.

            Robbie knew nothing of Millie’s Kenyan adventures, yet at that moment it seemed unfair that he didn’t know all about her life.

                          To be continued…

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 8

2010

            Millie had completely lost track of time as she sat reliving her 50 year old memories.  Checking the clock, she knew she’d better get busy.

The day wore on—errands, lunch while her friend kept saying, Millie, are you OK?  Where are you today?  But Millie didn’t want to talk about the letter—it was too personal, too closely connected to a part of her past she’d never shared.

At home later, Millie reread the letter.  She hadn’t ever felt that kind of connection with anyone.  As close as she and her husband had been, her relationship with Robbie had come at a more impressionable time in her life.

The sun now below the trees left the living room shrouded in gray.  Millie reached over and turned on a lamp.  Gilly roused from his sleep and whined.  “Gilly, my boy, you must be starved!  I’m sorry—let’s get something in your tummy.”   Gilly wagged his tail knowingly.

          

             The next morning, before heading for the kitchen and morning coffee she reached for her journal.  Writing was her survival tool—events, relationships all recorded for posterity, allowing deep-felt emotions to bleed onto the pages.

     

            A cool breeze brought the fragrances of spring to Millie’s nostrils as she sat writing in her meditation center.  Stopping to read the words, she saw them as if for the first time, wondering where they’d come from—memories, scenes from her past, and Robbie--dear, dear Robbie. 

    

A piece of toast and an hour later, Millie knew she needed to talk with someone.    She phoned her friend, Sara, who owned a Bed and Breakfast on the coast.  With a small suitcase packed, and Gilly in the back seat, she drove off before noon.

 

Sara and Millie entered the Peace Corp out of college—Millie with an elementary education degree from Southern Oregon College, and Sara, a sociology degree in hand, from Swarthmore College in Pennsylvania.  Two years in Kenya, teaching in a rural area outside Kisumu, brought them together like sisters.  They laughed, fought, shared heartaches and disappointments, along with falling head over heels in love with the most beautiful of East African countries.   They both remained in Kenya after their Peace Corp responsibilities ended—extended visas obtained because they knew people who knew people….   In those days a few extra shillings made most anything possible.

Millie pulled into the Cliff House B & B and saw Sara waving from the window.  What a beautiful place for people to come and relax—a large, soft gray, home-like structure sitting on an 80 foot cliff overlooking the Pacific.   The huge boulders jutting out of the waters gave drama to the scene. Most of the bedrooms overlooked the coast, but even those facing inland had a view of flower gardens that were simply gorgeous.  All of Sara’s talent for creativity had gone into her business.  Sara ran out and they embraced.

 

Sara had returned to the US six years earlier than Millie to begin working on further degrees.  She eventually entered the classroom as a university professor of women’s studies.  Eight years before she retired her husband, also a professor, died in a climbing accident.   When Sara retired, she moved to the Oregon coast and bought the B & B— loving the opportunity to meet people from all over the US and often other countries.

            Millie poured wine as Sara took lunch to the patio.  “OK, Millie, you said you needed to talk.  I’m all ears.”

            Millie told her about the letter and the years-old story of her relationship with Robbie.  “I guess it’s just the shock of hearing from him—albeit written nearly 40 years ago—that has me feeling….  Well, I don’t know how I’m feeling.  I keep reliving the friendship—it was so special at the time.”

 

            “Why don’t you try to find Robbie?”

            “But how?   I haven’t had any connection with him or anyone from New Castle since I was in high school.  I wouldn’t know the first place to begin.”

            “What about the internet?”

            “But where do I begin?  I mean, he could be dead!”

 

            “Well, that's information.  Probably the Southern Poverty Law Center would be a place to begin…”  Sara looked at Millie.  “You look exhausted.  Give me a few statistics about this Robbie—name, college, etc. and let me do some googling.  You go take a nap.”

            “I didn’t sleep well last night, and that wine has relaxed me so I could probably snooze for a bit.”

            Millie settled into Sara’s personal guest room—the attic.  She loved the cozy feeling of quilts—on the bed, hanging on an old rocker, even a small framed one Sara’s grandmother had made over 100 years ago.  The window opened out to the sea and the sound of the surf had an hypnotic effect on Millie.

 

            It took no time for Millie to drift into a sound sleep.  The next thing she knew, a faint whine came to her awareness.  She opened her eyes, and saw Gilly’s face with worry lines etched on his forehead as if to say, Mom, everything OK? She reached over and scratched him.  Looking at the clock, two hours has gone by, but she felt so much better!

                                    To be continued...

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 7

Final memories of their friendship…

I believe the first time I knew how different Robbie was from other boys was when I put my hand down on the grass next to a tombstone and laid it flat on a bumblebee.  I winced in pain from the sting and he grabbed my hand, pulled the stinger out and sucked on the puncture to get the poison out.  His tenderness was something I’d never experienced from my father--and certainly not from boys at school.

 

Our meetings were always beyond the eyes of others—usually picnics, and most often at Morgantown Cemetery.  Though our relationship never became physical, we grew extremely close over the summer months.

 

It was August of that summer—a hot day with humidity nearly equal to temperature.  We were chatting about some of the injustices that Negroes had to live through.   Robbie had learned about life for the Negroes in the South from his father who worked the cotton fields.   I had questions, always lots of questions.   On that particular day, Robbie had been telling me about a letter he and his mother had received from his father.  He spoke about the violence taking place on a daily basis in many of the Southern towns and cities.  Without fully understanding why, tears rolled down my cheeks as he talked.  I was beginning to understand Robbie’s pain  just because of his skin color.

Robbie looked over and saw my tears.  He took his napkin and wiped my cheeks and then put his hand under my chin and drew my face to his.  He lightly kissed me my cheek—tenderly, as if we were at that moment sharing the same pain.

 

From that time on I knew instinctively that I could trust Robbie with anything.   I began telling him about the anger that my dad held so closely to the surface—and much of it directed at me.  With all the pain Robbie had experienced from the outside, his family was very close.  Robbie’s willingness to listen to my hurt helped me know that not all men are hostile.

When school began that fall, we were in 9^th and 10^th grades.  Busier, with more studies and our activities, Robbie and I saw little of each other.  A couple of times before cold weather set in, we met at the cemetery.  A few times we were able to pass notes at school, but we knew it would not be understood if people found out.

I maintained friendships with my girlfriends, but they were somehow different—childish, our talks had no substance.  I continued as a majorette and marched and twirled when basketball season began.  Robbie was often high pointer at the games.

In March of 1957, my parents began discussing a move to Oregon.  Mother had a cousin living in southern Oregon who assured my parents that jobs could be had.  Mother and Dad’s marriage had been in trouble since before I was born, and they rationalized that this change might be good for them.  I knew Mother just wanted to be closer to her family.

 

I didn’t want to leave my friends.  I was a majorette.  I’d be a nobody in a new town.  Most important, of course, what would I do without my friendship with Robbie?    I had no one else to talk to.  And talk I did.

On one hand he was excited for me—a town of 15,000 sounded pretty neat compared to New Castle at 800.  Though only a year older than me, he had the ability to see things more realistically.  Every so often, the thought of future possibilities for our relationship crept into my mind.  If I even hinted at this in our conversations, Robbie set me straight right away.  “Millie, now you know that you are white and I am black and nothing is going to change that!”  Yet I knew he, too, valued our friendship.

The last time we met at Morgantown Cemetery, I fixed a special picnic.  Robbie and I sat talking and trying to be cheerful.  He teased me about all the new boyfriends I’d have to choose from.  Other than Mother’s cousin, we knew no one else who lived in the whole state of Oregon.  I felt more than a little overwhelmed.

 

I looked at my watch.  “Robbie, I’m sorry but I have to get home.”

“Wait just a minute.  I have something to give you.”  He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small box.  “I couldn’t wrap it, but you can pretend it has pink flowered paper on it.”

I smiled.  Robbie knew how much I liked flowers.  I opened the box and stared in disbelief.  “Robbie, it’s beautiful!”  A gold bracelet lay on white satin—flowers in a filigree design with scalloped edging on a one inch band.  “I’ll treasure it always!”  I took the gold bracelet from the box.  I felt horrible that he’d spent so much money, yet so touched that he wanted to give me such a lovely remembrance of our friendship.  I leaned over and kissed him lightly on his cheek.

 

I had thought long and hard about buying something for him.  I reached into my bag that contained the remnants of our lunch and pulled out a small package.

 

“I want to give you something, too.”  I handed it to him—a key chain with two charms—a heart, and two holding hands.  “Robbie, you have such a big heart,  and I hope the hands will remind you of our friendship.”

We hugged and  I turned and walked over to the tree where my bike stood.  I couldn’t look back at Robbie.  It just hurt too much.  I rode off with tears hitting my knees as I peddled home.

  To be continued…

The Black and White of It All -- Chapter 6

Millie’s memories continue

That summer I had a babysitting job—Monday through Thursday.  Babysitting helped me buy school clothes.  One Thursday morning as I ate breakfast, Mother asked me to take the garbage out before I left.  I went from room to room collecting the trash and headed out to the alley behind our apartment.  Just as I dumped it into the container, I looked up the alley and saw Robbie waving his hand from the passenger side of his grandfather’s truck.

“Hi,” I said rather shyly as he walked up to me.  I’d almost given up seeing him during the summer.

 

“How about a picnic sometime?”  I couldn’t believe it.  He really did want to be friends!

 

“Well, I’m babysitting and…” I started.

“Yeah, I know, but you don’t work on Fridays.  We could meet at the Morgantown cemetery.  How about 1 o’clock tomorrow?”  Robbie knew my summer schedule!

 

“That would be neat.  Do you like tuna fish sandwiches?”  I blurted out.

“Great!  I’ll bring some dessert.”  And he ran to catch up with his grandfather’s truck.  I stood there not quite believing what had just happened.

Friday morning I had a couple of chores completed before Mother left for her waitress job down the street.    Monday through Friday she put on her white shoes and crisp, white uniform with a flowered hanky pinned to the breast pocket.  

I worked without stopping and completed Mother’s Chore List.  Then I went to my room to get ready.  Just before I walked out I grabbed a table cloth from Mother’s old collection.

 The day was warm but I biked fast enough that the breeze kept me cool.  The Morgantown Cemetery was old.  Some of the dates on the tombstones were the early and mid 1800s.  It was in a remote corner of a field and couldn’t be seen from the road.  I’d been there before with a friend and we’d looked at the names on the tombstones— Abraham Lincoln Jefferson, Martha Elizabeth Johnston, George Washington Littleton.   

Robbie was already there.  He smiled and said Hi as he took my bike and parked it against a tree.

“I wonder why this cemetery is here.” I asked.  “I don’t know anyone buried here who is related to anyone in town.”

“It's a Negro cemetery.”  I was shocked.  I’d never heard of a Negro cemetery.

I looked at Robbie.  “Why is there a separate cemetery?  Don’t you want to be buried in the church yards in town?”  The way he rolled his eyes suggested that I didn’t know much.

He shook his head and said, “Millie, it’s not that we don’t want to be buried in town.  We’re not allowed to be buried in a white cemetery.”

I looked at him unbelieving.  “Why that’s ridiculous!  When people are dead, they’re dead.  What difference does the color make?”

“You’re pretty naive, Girl.  You’ve lived in your little white world without realizing there is any other kind out there.”

And this was the first of our weekly picnics for the rest of that summer.  We talked.  We ate.  We laughed.  We teased.  We became comfortable.  We became friends.  The time spent with Robbie was the source of my true education—about life and love and hate.  It made my formal schooling seem useless.  I experienced first hand another world.

                    To be continued...