Karen and I met in college. Fifty years ago. 1974. Wahpeton, ND. North Dakota State School of Science or NDSSS.
On a side note when people out of state asked me where I went to college, and I told them NDSSS, the next question was …
Diversionary tactics are important when scanxiety sets in. Yes, one week from today we will be on our way to Mayo for another MRI of my brain. To divert my thinking about that all week, I gave some thought to my friend, Karen.
“Are you a scientist?”
“Sorry, no. I took printing.” You see I wanted to be an artist, but growing up in German-Russian country one had to select a “career” that paid. Art was not on anyone’s radar as a viable choice. So, graphic arts was the next best curriculum.
My parents drove me to Wahpeton the Sunday before classes began in the fall of my graduating year. They didn’t even get out of the car. They just dropped me off at the door to the dorm I had been assigned with my suitcase on the sidewalk and drove away. Years later I found out that is how my father’s parents took him to the train station when he enlisted in the army.
Monday was the first day of class. Somehow I managed to find my room, unpack, and get to class in the correct building. I don’t remember being too apprehensive about any of it, but I’m sure it was a bit scary never having been away from home alone ever in my 18 years.
After classes that first day and supper in the cafeteria, I strolled around the campus, which at that time was not very large. Suddenly a car pulled up, a station wagon if I remember correctly, and Karen was hanging out of the back window with a car full of people.
I recognized Karen as one of three (or four) girls in the graphic arts program made up of mainly guys.
“What kind of beer do you drink?” Karen said.
“Budweiser.”
“Get in, we are going to Breckenridge.”
That’s Breckenridge, Minn., and the drinking age was 18 years old back then.
So, I jumped in the car with the three guys who ended up Karen’s cousins and a friend named Jon. As they say, the rest is history. That one question and we were friends forever. We moved in together, partied together, and made homemade pizza together. We were a gang.
We never lost touch after spending time together for nearly two years. We sent cards for birthdays and Christmas with photos of our families. Occasionally, I would drive to Inkster and stay with Karen on the farm she and Jon (yes, the one in the station wagon) to this day farm. I considered Karen a Hallmark friend because we could pick up where we left off without missing a beat after not seeing each other in person for a long time.
I love getting mail and used to write lengthy narratives of my life to my friends scattered across the country after college to begin careers. I saved all my letters in small bundles tied up with string in a box in my basement. I have since cleaned out most of the Christmas cards, but I can’t bear to throw some of those letters away.
Fast forward 50 years to 2023 and cancer. Karen sent me a card outside of my birthday or Christmas. It was the period when I didn’t feel much like sharing my situation. I was still trying to absorb the consequences of a life with cancer.
The note’s handwriting was familiar with a panicked slant to it. Written in haste and perhaps some anxiety. It read her daughter Kasey had just been diagnosed with cancer. I didn’t know what to say, so I told her about my cancer.
We could easily text each other. We could talk on the phone. We could use Facebook Messenger. But, no. Karen sends me cards. At least once a month. They are cute cards with caricatures of little old women, cool ones like us. She doesn’t write too much on each card, but they are filled with words of encouragement.
One day last winter, I received notice of a package in the mail. I didn’t order anything? But I love getting packages as much as I love getting letters. Walking the quarter-mile to the mailbox gives me an excuse to get some fresh air every day — even in the dead of winter. In the barrel the mailman uses to keep packages out of the elements was a huge balloon of a package. Inside was a very large, very soft, very colorful blanket and a note, “A warm blanket for a cool friend.”
Make my day, my friend.
Another friend, Shelley, said, “Sue, there are friends for a season, friends for a reason, and friends for a lifetime.”
I looked it up. Typically, the average adult has about three to five real friends, lifetime friends, but there’s still time to make more. I appreciate all of you as my friends, especially now in this season of my life.
Remember, “For Everything There is a Season,” is more than a song by the Byrds.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to throw away; a time to tear and a time to sew; a time to keep silence and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.”
Thank you all for being a part of my season.
INDYchildrendotme 
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