It's History

One of my old friends is researching in History on the campus unrest of the early seventies, which curiously enough was when we were in high school together, and many of us were faculty brats. My dad was actually one of those radical professors who was suspended from classes, for supposedly making trouble, and then there was a big hoo-hah in court and a faculty committee investigation, where he and three others (the Four) were eventually exonerated. Of course the students were quite capable of making trouble without any help from the faculty at all.

I haven't seen or talked to my dad George in some years, since my brother was here briefly a while back and we all had lunch. I suggested to my friend the Historian that she is probably better off contacting him very professional-like, rather than as an old friend of mine, because I have no clue how he is doing except what I hear from my friend Barb, who is the Significant Other of one of the other Four, and they see each other socially from time to time. Over the years I have come to understand that his divorce from my mother was acrimonious, to say the least, which would explain why he prefers no reminders of that part of his life. I saw him occasionally in my twenties when I was visiting my Cuban family across the street, but since then our contacts have been scarcer; and he has never met my husband or son.

But this all got me thinking, so a couple days ago I tried phoning. I was on my walk, thinkin about all this stuff, and I had the number on my cellphone (having thought about this before) and tried it. Walked along nearly to the zoo letting it ring. No answer.

Then I tried Directory Assistance -- first time I have done that with the cellphone, but finally the 411 number has sunk into the aged little grey cells. I had been phoning the wrong number. His listed number is d'oh! a number I learned in college, and obviously misplaced. The old high school home phone number is apparently stuck in my memory for the duration; I wonder how I could get dibs on it, a very old number from a small town exchange like Whitewater. Then maybe place a call to, like, 1970.

No answer at that number either. I had time to think about what I'd say if I got an answering machine. No problem with what I'd say if I got HIM, how is he doing? etc but heaven forbid I should sound like an idiot on an answering machine. The people at Directory Assistance were surprisingly easy to get information from -- at least I have the address right.

This reminds me I have some striking black and white photos of his house when it was newly risen from the dirt of the cornfield, and all moderne white plastic furniture. I did actually stay with him briefly back then, when I was in town, from time to time, and my BFF and I took these photos. How did we get in?? No don't tell me... the key was... under the mat?