I like lists. I've been blessed with a sharp memory, but I still jot things down so that I won't forget to buy trash bags, cat food, or soap for S'ville. I always made "to do" lists for work, but lately, working at home, I become so focused in a project - contract work or curriculum updates that I haven't been good about keeping a prioritized work list. It hit me last night that some things are slipping through the cracks; I may forget to pay a bill, or send a card for someone's special day. In the past, working elsewhere, the bi-weekly payday was the trigger to pay bills, and the lunch time stroll took place near a Hallmark shop.

So, I resolved to make a to do list today, and in the process realized I needed to complete my faculty activity report for 2001-02. It is optional for adjuncts, but encouraged, and with the dismal state of the budget in post-9/11 New York, it is a good idea to trumpet one's activities. Computer forms still leave a lot to be desired. I first downloaded the form and intended to complete it in a word processor. Any time I share a document with others, I use a Microsoft product, since it is the "standard." And so - of course! about halfway through, Word crashed. I had saved the document, but when I went to reopen it - I got that lovely message about it being already in use and available solely as read only. After cursing Bill Gates, the heat (I had neglected to put the A/C on because it makes special needs dog Sophie uncomfortable), and Bill Gates again, I thought, I'll try the PDF version, and use USPS to send it. When I opened it, I discovered that the Word version had some differences in format; in other words, in the word processor, there were tabs etc. that were getting in the way. At this point, I figured, I'll get out my old Smith Corona typewriter for the top of the form, and I'll cut and paste the remainder from Word Perfect.

I can't remember the last time I used the typewriter, but I had been thinking about it fondly, as I reviewed my old writing recently. It was coated with dust, as well as Rudy's and Edna's hair (and probably Howie's and Penny's too - my beloved late dogs) [Sophie is hairless]. It still worked, but the ribbon and correction tape didn't, and I couldn't find a spare. In those cash poor days, I doubt I stocked up they way I do now, with printer cartridges and other office supplies. So I snapped the case shut. Oh well.

I proceeded to cut and paste the entire report, listening to Five for Fighting compete with my box fan. Glue stick in hand, I remembered how many times, pre-computer, I used my exacto knife and cutting mat to make magical layouts, how crude was the procedure, but how much tangible pleasure those simple tasks generated. Mind wandering, I mentally skipped to the next item on my list, which was locating Anne's address in time to get a card in the mail so she can receive it on her birthday on Monday.

I met Anne on the first day of kindergarten. I am the baby of the family, and at the time my oldest brother was 17. He drove me to school that day; I ran up the steps and into the school without looking back; I couldn't wait to go to school, like the big kids. Anne is also the baby of her family, but she spent that first day, and much of the next few weeks, sitting on the teacher's lap, crying.

We became fast friends, Anne and I, despite our differences. For the remainder of our young years, we were best friends. I remember riding our bicycles to Skin's, the general store, and sitting there on the porch, eating ice cream and candy and pepperoni. I remember long, carefree summers spent swimming and playing with our dogs, swinging on the swingsets at the town park, and setting up tables at the end of the driveway, where we sold our mothers' old costume jewelry and made $7 each. We talked on the phone and wrote many letters to each other, even though we spent nearly every day together.

At the end of 8th grade, Anne and her family moved about 300 miles away. We stayed in touch, writing letters, with occasional phone calls and more infrequently, visiting. The differences between us remain; I pursued higher education, she chose not to. I married young; she waited. I have no children; she has two girls. But our views and values remain similar, and our friendship continues, strong and unwavering through 36 years. The shared experience of trips to Skin's, our beloved and beautiful small hometown, reverence for our families, and hating gym class in school will bind us forever. Interestingly, we both are involved in education; she works at the school that her daughters attend, and I teach and write on the subject. Perhaps, even for someone like me who intended to pursue a field that was not female-dominated, the societal pull of so-called "women's work" cannot be denied. Or perhaps school is just so comfortable.

Due to my interest in history and genealogy, I have copies of old letters, between my grandmother and her sister; between a distant relative whom I did not know and some of her friends and relatives; and between another distant relative and her future husband. People with little formal education wrote beautifully, regularly, poetically. Several years ago, when email was fairly new, I remember reading somewhere that it was resurrecting the lost art of letter writing. That's so wonderful.

Sadly, Anne does not have a home computer, or use email. So our correspondence follows the predictable pattern I have observed in my grandmother's and great aunt's letters: Christmas, birthdays, other occasions, and thank you notes. A yearly chronicle of milestones. Last year, when she turned 40, I was all set to attend her surprise party, but my body refused to cooperate. My schedule was hectic, and I came down with bronchitis, nearly pneumonia, and was lectured to stay home, or else, by the doctor. I had a low-key celebration for my 40th, which turned out to be a wise plan, since it arrived exactly one week after 9/11, and no one, including me, felt like celebrating anything. In her letter at that time, she told me about her new house, and sent me her soon-to-be address.

I didn't hear from her at Christmas...this never happens, and so I have been a bit worried ever since. I neglected to enter her new address in my database. I calm my worries by thinking that in her move, she probably misplaced my address, also. An internet search turns up only her old address and phone number. So sending a card meant searching through a box of old papers for last year's birthday card, a task I detest. I'm happy to report that I just checked that item off my new to do list...good thing I am a pack rat! Happy 41st Birthday, Annie!