Facebook is something I haven't quite figured out, but it has definitely brought back some memories of things and people I haven't thought about in a long time.
I joined a few months ago after receiving a request from someone. I posted the least possible amount of information about myself on my page as I could. My plan was to sit back and watch, but no, I couldn't do that. It's not set up that way.
My niece pinged me and became my first "friend." My nephew found out and became annoyed that I hadn't friended him. He became my second friend.
The next friend requests came from some of my colleagues at work. Even though I didn't really want to, I accepted them as friends. It seems odd to friend people who you see at work every day, but that's how it goes.
A woman I had gone to high school with asked "Are you the Julie from the Chronicle?" The Chronicle was the high school newspaper she and I had worked on. I added another friend. I was kind of into it. It was fun to see who else might turn up. I was amassing a decent number of friends.
Like bees to honey, people I had known in high school began approaching me (ok, that sounds a little arrogant, but you know what I mean, I hope). The most surprising came from a guy named Larry whose family had lived down the street from me when I was growing up. I have no memory of his parents, but I do remember him. I'm surprised he friended me because I was always running away from him.
He and his family lived in a big two-story house. It was typical of houses one might see in the Midwest. Behind the house was a big garage. It was a fairly big structure with large barn-style swinging doors. I don't recall there ever being a car in it. All I know was that it was big and empty. So what better place could there be than this to smoke and make-out?
I was always intrigued with that hang out, but I never went in. I come from a devout Catholic family and the fear of God had been instilled in me at a young age when it came to anything remotely related to sex. I have to admit it was pretty pathetic. All the neighborhood kids would collect and one-by-one enter "the garage." All of the kids, except me would go in for an afternoon of fun. Not me. I would wander to the back of the crowd and then slowly back away from the garage, round the corner, and run back to my house. To this day, I have no first-hand knowledge of what went on in that place. I suspect that my fantasies are far more interesting than anything that might have happened.
Late one summer, the fun in the garage ended. The neighborhood gang had decided to sneak out of town and go swimming in one of the big retention ponds outside of town. It sounded like it was going to be a blast, but once again, I ran home. The next day, the news flew through the neighborhood. Larry's brother drowned in the retention pond that day. The gang never again met in the garage. It was almost as if the entire neighborhood was frozen. The family disappeared into the house and a short time later, moved from the neighborhood. I never again heard from Larry or his family, until I was pinged on Facebook.
When he reached out to me, he didn't say anything about the garage or his brother. I wonder if he remembers the garage the way I do?
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