"Hi Linda, this is Dan Torville." (I changed the name).
Right away I know this is someone I must have known when I was 18 or younger. I became Lyn in college.
"I'm not sure if you remember me, but we went to high school together. I need to talk to you about something. Please call me at...."
I have no idea who this person is.
But I'm curious, and call him back.
He thanks me for returning his call, and asks if I remember him. I don't. He identifies himself by saying, "We graduated together. I'm the one who sent you flowers for graduation."
Now I feel bad. I should remember someone who sent me flowers.
He asks if I am going to the big class reunion planned for the fall. I'm not.
I assume he found me on Facebook, or LinkedIn, or maybe even through this blog. But no, he tells me. "I don't own a computer. I have someone who does things for me if I need it."
Even my soon-to-be 90 year old mother uses an iPad.
He then tells me he has no cell phone either. "If I need a phone for anything, I buy one of the disposable ones."
95% of Americans own a cell phone.
Unsolicited he also tells me he doesn't have cable.
We live very different lives.
I learn a few things about him. He seems like a good person.
He resides in Florida. Has had many different jobs. Has no children. Never married. "I never found anyone who loved me enough."
He's lost five of his seven friends — and his brother.
He's now taking care of his mom, who is younger than my mom, but not doing nearly as well.
He learns nothing about me.
After 20 minutes or so, I need to go.
I find my high school yearbook and look him up.
Unfortunately, I still don't remember him.
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