Good Morning, Good Day, and Good Night

This is my 150th column for 5enses. One hundred and fifty articles written over a period of some 13 years. That’s not so much writing as it is thinking. The writing part is not so hard. I’m used to that. Nor is coming up with ideas. What’s strenuous is digging into an idea. Dissecting, elaborating, finding a beginning and a conclusion. Tons of art and science, as 5enses is intended to be. So after all that, after writing about art that holds up just fine and science that tries to, I thought I owed myself the opportunity to indulge in a bit of personal reflection on an issue that affects everyone.

In 1963 I was 17, sitting in an International Relations class at Grant High School in Van Nuys CA. Solomon Modell, the best teacher I ever had (how could he not be, with a name like Solomon?) took a momentary break from the subject of the day to hold up a small envelope.

“This is from a 14-year-old girl in Australia. She’s looking for a pen pal. Someone to write to her. Anybody interested?” Nobody raised a hand. So I did, thinking it might be fun to swap a few postcards or letters with someone in far-off Australia.

That was 61 years ago.

Lynette Harrington was a bit shy, but perky and determined, even in print. I also found out that she had red hair, blue eyes, and was very, very pretty, which did not hurt my decision a bit. As pen pals do, we began swapping postcards and letters. For years. And years. Eventually, Lynette and her then-husband Bob came to visit. We took them through the Four Corners route — Zion, Bryce, the Grand Canyon. Then it was back to postcards and letters till my wife JoAnn and I made it Down Under and took ample time to visit with them and their kids, James and Samantha.

Years later I happened to be in Brisbane (for a film festival, no less) and I visited by myself. A genuine bushwalker, Lynette took me out to a local, semi-wild (as is much of Australia) nature area and promptly walked me under the bridge. As a guy I couldn’t, of course, admit to being out-hiked, but I must have been a sight, huffing and puffing to keep up while she skipped along rocks and pathways like a flame-haired character out of the Dreamtime.

Eventually email replaced the postcards and letters, but we continued to maintain our correspondence. I don’t know how many pen pals stick together for more than six decades, but surely it indicates that there’s something there more than a desire to maintain a responsibility. I know there was on my end.

Lynette taught English overseas. In China, in the UAE, and did as much gallivanting around the planet as time and her work schedule would permit. James and Samantha grew into adults as fine and handsome as they were as children. Grandchildren came along, and retirement from teaching, which led (naturally) to yet more traveling. Meanwhile I was seeing as much of the world as I could, and writing furiously according to the little creative demon that drove me (and still drives me).

Then we both contracted cancer.

Different kinds. The details don’t matter. And still, year after year, correspondence via email (I miss the postcards and letters). When she sold her house recently I knew it was getting bad. Then, a few days ago, I got a longish email. The contents were not unexpected. Time for palliative care and home hospice, it said. Accompanied by some 75th-birthday pictures. The same bright smile, children and grandchildren swarming. That time when we all become our parents. But hanging onto James when standing, and a wheelchair when sitting. So strange to see, when what I remember is the sprite dancing through the forest.

I don’t dance so much now myself. But so far, after nine years of living with a dark shadow (same diagnosis as a recent ex-President), no hospice, no wheelchair. And I can still write. All our finalities, like all our lives, progress differently. Sometimes there are even surprises.

Then, that most recent email. All about her situation, and 75th birthday party, and — plans. And the last line: “Just wanted you to know that our lifetime of friendship has meant the world to me.”

That broke me. After 61 years, you’d think something like that wouldn’t hit so hard in the feels. But it did. After all the decades of talk of family and kids and sharing anecdotes of faraway places, finally — that.

So here’s to you, Red. Lynette Harrington of Brisbane, Australia and points around the globe. You’ve been my friend longer than anyone else still alive, and though that’s soon Not to Be, I’m forever glad for every minute of it.

(Editor’s note: Alan tells us that Lynette passed away quietly on June 11.)