This may sound cute and romantic, but it wasn't. I was pretty clear that we were just friends, and I just used the same horny behavior that I did on more or less every girl in my school back home in Israel, so there wasn't anything special about that. It was just that the physical attraction reason was broken. What really drew us closer that day was our constant talk, and how we discovered how weird we both are. That cell phone illumination of parked cars license plates was really... our first abnormal behaviour together!

Anyway, back home to Israel, back to the new home in Eilat where my family had moved, getting ready for the trip to a summer school in France that I had won. Me and 29 other israeli youths. Most girls. The physical attraction reason was broken, but God had more barriers to break down. This time it was "it has to be an israeli" and "she's not my type". All those israeli girls - at least half of them my type. And I "fell in love" with a canadian not my type. I write "fell in love" because it wasn't really that. The feelings and the potential was there and it was mutual, but we barely knew each other, and we both went back to the countries we came from. Nothing happened, no regrets. Strange though... was it my imagination or was she a little similar to that Swedish friend I have...?

Our online relation grew stronger and stronger. We were best friends. She was with me all the hard time when my dad lost his tourism job due to the intifada, and the family's decision to go back to Sweden, and my decision to stay. I spoke to her about everything... except when I had a girlfriend. I didn't tell her about the girlfriend. Why? I guess I was afraid she'd tell me the truth. That it's stupid getting involved with someone you barely know, and that unless you see a wedding in the future, relationships hurt more than they give. I told her only on the same day I decided to break up with the girlfriend (we hadn't gone out for two weeks even) and she told me exactly what I knew she would.

My family went back to Sweden, and I stayed with my dad for another 6 months until mid 2001, so I could finish high school.

I grew to like her more and more. Not only as a friend. She sent me mp3 of her singing and some random photos she had taken of herself. I'd listen to it, watching the photos as I chatted to her. She was great. Really great. And she loved Israel. But would she switch country for me? She always talked about her future plans as in Sweden. And every time she did so I felt an ice cold knife in my heart. But why? Did I want something more? Really? Was I only dreaming and getting carried away? Would she ever consider moving to Israel for me or would she demand me to go to Sweden? And how would I respond?

In May we spoke about our feelings for the first time. The parts I remember go like this:

She: "My friend "I" just asked me something"

Me: "What?"

She: "If something was happening between us"

My heart skipped a beat. This was it. The dreaded conversation I knew would come up.

Me: "What did you answer"

It felt like hours before her answer came

She: "I said not to worry. Nothing will happen"

That ice cold knife again. Twisting around this time. I tried to grab the only straw.

Me: "Did you mean it"

She: "Yes"

How one little word can hurt so much.

I don't remember how the rest of the conversation went. But I did mention to her that I had feelings for her. And she responded that she also had feeling for me. Knife gone. I felt as if my chest was filled with warm bubbly water. I stressed the fact that I will always stay in Israel, and she said "of course, I know that!" Ok, so she knows. I know a relationship with her means planning a wedding. And she knows a wedding means moving to Israel. And she is still telling me she has feelings.

The warm water stayed with me when I went to bed. As a matter of fact I don't think it ever left. It's still there.

July 2001. I've finished high school, and I took a plane with my dad to Sweden. For him it was emigration. For me it was a month's visit before going back and joining the army.

I was with my parents in southern Sweden in the beginning and went to visit her in the north a week later. I spent a week with her and her parents at their home. I visited their summer cabin and met her nephews and niece. Meeting the family. Does this happen with "just friends"? After a bunch of misunderstandings (I hugged her, held her hand, kissed her on the cheek - normal friendly behaviour in Eilat. Coming on to her for her) we ended up kissing (I took the initiative - I saw it in her eyes) on Friday July 13th.

We decided to keep things "up in the air" in the meanwhile, and not see other people until we reached a decision. The finally on August 31st we decided on ICQ that we are together for life. She came to visit with her parents December 28th, and we decided there was no reason postponing getting engaged. I was coming to Sweden in March 2002 for my 20th birthday, and we took the opportunity to see each other and get engaged. We still thought the wedding wouldn't be until 2006, but some plans changed, and we decided to get married during my planned christmas visit to Sweden in December 2002. She came to visit in September to meet my friends, congregation, see our home, plan the wedding. And then in December 2002 I flew to Sweden to get married.

Christmas in the south with the parents. Caught a stomach disease and threw up. With much difficulty we avoided touching each other for a few days, and it went away before the wedding. Phew! No puking during the ceremony.

We got married December 28th 2002, and went home to Israel on her 21st birthday, January 4th 2003.

Since all I have in my pocket is my bus fare, I can’t afford to buy anything at the said food chain—yes, even the cheapest one. So I let myself envy those who indulge themselves of my favorite burger steak. And I feel awful for myself, yeah. I must wait until the clock strikes at 9am. And when I have my ATM at hand, it’s fiesta time!

Couples are eating. Talking to each other the words that only the two of them hear and understand. Followed by a soft giggling, smiling. You can feel the love even when you watch them. I can see from their faces the feeling of happiness, the happiness of being in love.

I started to starve. "Hell, how long will I wait here? How long will I suffer?" (And that was already a form of “suffering” for me)

All of a sudden, my thoughts of being in love were disturbed by a group of noisy people at the other table. Friends, as I should call this next group of people, were loudly laughing and cracking jokes to each other. And by this scenario, my own friends also entered my mind.

And it’s already 9am—at last. And I’m going to leave the place that serves as my haven of thoughts for a moment. Thanks for driving my mind.

The coffee here had a certain smell. It filled the air around the grinder. Some thought it stunk. I found it comforting.

Smelling it on the way back from the bathroom made me long for how things once were. If I could, I'd bring you back to behind that counter. I would order an iced Clouds. And I'd know you automatically give me extra whipped cream. I'd sit outside on my laptop past closing, staying warm with a large Sense of Peace tea. I'd wait for you to bring the last little bit of whipped cream out to me. I think we would have had longer talks if that was now.

I remember sitting at that bar while you guys closed. You never kicked me out, but I usually left right at 11 anyways. The reggae he always had on. You'd both turn the music up.

Some nights, you offered me the left over ground coffee. I delightfully accepted, because my mother loved it. Sometimes, I'd leave a cup in my car just to be surrounded by that smell when I left my house the next morning.

Sometimes, I think about the talks we had. The few, but incredible times we enjoyed.

Sometimes, I remember that the store next door is closed.

Sometimes, I remember that things will never be the way they once were.

And it makes me glad. Because, if they were ongoing, I may be sick of them and not look so fondly back at them.

And it makes me remember how important it is that I forget about my issues with people or my made up "hurts" and fully enjoy the moments with the incredible people in my life right now.
Because, someday, the smell of pesto pasta may make me wish for how things once were.

I hope that someday is not someday soon.

            Orange wasn’t a bad town to grow up in.  When I was a kid there were about 5000 people living there, and in a town that is thirty-five square miles they are pretty spread out.  In conjunction with Athol (4), Orange was the population center along Route 2 between Gardner in the East and Greenfield in the west, each about 25 minutes away.  Nestled on the Northwest corner of the Quabbin, woods and wildlife abounded and much of my youth was spent biking, hiking, and tracking through the forests of north Quabbin.

            The local elementary school system was split between two schools in Orange, Dexter Park, for kindergarten through third grade, and Butterfield for grades four through six (5).  My Dexter Park years were great.  It was the only time during my schooling that I got to ride the bus to school.  It wasn’t much of a ride as I got picked up at the last stop before school, but there was something magical about taking the bus.  Particularly on special days, like the day before Christmas break when you could feel the excitement crackling in the air, or the last day of school when we would all sing along to “No more pencils, no more books!” (6)

            In Kindergarten my teacher was Ms. B, who looked like a pre-perm Mike Brady (7), whom was assisted by Mrs. H, an older teachers aide who had actually helped out in my preschool class as well, because of a classmate Mike, that was severely mentally challenged (8).  Mike was best known for swimming in the invisible pool at recess, during which he would run around in circles, spinning his arms as he ran like an Olympic swimmer competing in the backstroke (9).  I have few vivid memories from kindergarten, aside from opening the McDonalds on the Athol/Orange line (10), and later going to a birthday party there, both of which were good times, my lasting memory of kindergarten was the rather traumatic event of getting stuck in the Tires. 

            The Dexter Park School was built on a plateau about halfway up Fall Hill, which rose into a rounded crest behind the school.  The woods on Fall hill were especially thick at this time, and we had seen porcupines and coyotes wandering the edge of the forest from our classrooms on several occasions.  They playground for the school was blacktop around the school with some swings and a wooden Octagon with slides, poles, and rope and tire ladders for climbing on.  Below the blacktop was a field that dropped off steeply at first but then became rolling grass at the edge of the school yard where the basketball courts and Tires were. 

Now the tires were a construction of giant 6-8 foot across tires that had been bolted together to resemble a fortress or castle, with a few poles that ran down the middle for sliding.  The outer tires were filled as sandboxes, while the inner tires that comprised the actual structure were hollow and as a mall child you could sit or lay down inside the actual tire.  It was during the first week of kindergarten that I found myself down around the tires having a grand time climbing and rough housing in them with a couple of kids (this was all before school started).  Well my new friends and I had climbed into the top most tire and were sitting on the inner edge of it, our legs dangling in the open air about 6 feet above the ground.  It was at this point that the bell to start school sounded.  With much aplomb my friends one by one extricated themselves from the tire, slid down the pole, and ran off to their lockers and the start of the school day.  I on the other hand, sat in the edge of the tire paralyzed with fear.  At that point six feet was really quite high for me and I experienced my first taste of vertigo.  There were a couple of stragglers still hanging around the tires, and one girl (11) tried to help me down out of the tire but I wasn’t moving, out of a fear of falling.  After a few attempts at dislodging me from my precarious perch, she left and headed into the school. 

At this point I was alone and scared and really began to cry in earnest.  Having been dizzy from looking down I crawled entirely into the tire and laid down in my tears, only to have an attack of claustrophobia inside the walls of the tire, which seemed to be closing in on me.  Now I was hyperventilating and really starting to panic when I heard a faint call of “Hello?” from someone outside of the tires.  I managed to choke out a sob that was heard by Mrs. Barnes, another Kindergarten teacher that the girl had sought out for help.  She made her way to the center tire where I was stuck and taking me under the shoulders pulled me out of my rubber prison and placed me down next to her.

Mrs. Barnes accompanied me to my classroom and explained what had happened to my teacher that had caused me to miss the first 15 minutes of school.  Slightly tear stained, but no real worse for the wear, I sat down and the day went on as normal.  After that incident I didn’t set foot on those tires until third grade (12).

(1) During my senior year of High School I knew I wasn’t interested in going to college right away so I signed up for the Massachusetts Army National Guard.  I was promised a $5000 signing bonus if I enlisted as a Military police officer (Having scored nearly perfect on my ASVAB I had my choice of job assignment.  I went with the money.).  Of the $5000 I only saw about $1200, which taught me my first lesson on NEVER TRUST THE GOVERNMENT.

 

(2) After I returned home my parents, especially my mother, tried to convince me to go in to the army full time.  I will admit that I did think about it, and a couple of my Guard buddies went full time around this time too.  I decided against it as I had too much going on, on the side then.

 

(3) In retrospect the house in which I grew up was amazing.  It was in the Dutch Gambrel style, with large, airy rooms, a backyard big enough for baseball and football games with the neighborhood kids (until my parents put in a pool), and we even had our own jungle against the back property line, which in reality was little more than some overgrown brush, but to a 5 year old who never really had a yard before that it was a jungle for exploring and playing GI JOE in.

 

(4) Athol and Orange were and remain to this day bitter rivals in high school athletics, and the rivalry would occasionally spill over into other areas, like when Wal-Mart was looking for a location for the area store, and Orange trumped Athol’s bid for the building site.

 

(5) When I was in high school another elementary school was added.  Fisher Hill was built right next to Dexter Park and served the Kindergarten through second grade, while third and fourth the went to Dexter park, and fifth and sixth grades continued at Butterfield.

 

(6) When one stops to consider it, riding the school bus is actually someone’s first exposure to the long, dreaded commute.  Maybe its because I only rode the bus for my first three years of school that I never learned to hate commuting.

 

(7) If Mike Brady was a six foot lesbian.

 

(8) Fucking retarded for the layman

 

(9) In High School Mike and three other challenged students would go on to make the news after being separated from the main group during a field trip to climb Mount Monadnock.  It was several hours before they were found and officials blamed chaperones for not keeping a close enough eye on their charges.  In actuality the four students went off into the woods to smoke a joint or fool around with their MR girlfriends (or something like that, it depends on who told the story).

 

(10) This was big. It was 1984 and the area got its first fast food joint within a twenty-minute drive.  There had been KFC in Athol at one point but it was closed for (supposed) health violations.

 

(11) She ended up being my next door neighbor, Kelly, and we would go on to be best friends until she went to middle school.

 

(12) Starting at recess that day no kindergarteners were allowed on said tires again.  One of the few policies I have been responsible for in my day.

 

I remember this other girl in my class with red ringlets, saddle shoes and a school uniform. In retrospect I feel sorry for those transplants from England who wore their uniforms, not realizing how they would stick out instead of blend in. Calgary in those days have very few private schools, at least in the area where we lived.

Margaret Parsons was probably shyer and more awkward than me. I took a good look at her one day and thought, if I stay the way I am I'll be like her. Or I can change. The change was at least twofold. It involved building a harder shell about myself so the jibes of the insensitve couldn't get through. I became a bit of a joker, and teased my friends. I almost did this too much and hurt a few feelings before I learned to temper the humor.

The first stage started happening in grade 7, which was the beginning of junior high for us. The second stage was in grade 9, the last year of junior high. I started to wear brighter colors besides soft blues and beiges, believing that if I brightened my look it would bring me out more. And in fact that's what happened. Grade 9 was still a bit of the process of become bolder and by the end of high school I was more outgoing.

I continued this into art college. I hit a plateau for a while of being less awkward, more fashionably secure and sociable to an acceptable level. But if anyone had ever told me I would act or read anything in front of a group of people, I would have laughed and said impossible.

Eventually, as I began to write more I thought of reading my poetry. The prospect was terrifying but at a fairly small venue of the Burnaby Writers' Society I got up and read a couple of poems. I'm sure I stammered, I turned beet red and my throat became so dry from nervousness that I actually choked on my words. But I did it, feeling mortified but also brave.

After that first leap, I continued to read. I continued to wear bright colors and today, if you ask anyone, no one would think I was ever shy. Perhaps I'm too bold in some ways but I made a conscious effort to change myself. I'm still going through that process. In fact, I think it never ends. The changes are different now and don't involve colors as much as redecorating the interior.

That

Cassie is one of the best friends I have had and probably will ever had. She and I met as six graders, lost and confused at Logan Middle School. Cassie was tall and thin, wore hand-me-downs, big geek glasses, and had the longest hair out of anyone in school. Because of her appearance, she was the object of tween ridicule.

For some reason, Cassie was never like the rest of us, and was not fazed by her poverty.  Material possessions never appealed to her. Instead of wanting to go out and buy the brands that were popular at our middle school and attempt to assimilate, she had no qualms with her thrift store threads. Cassie had a fondness for her cats, eighties music, and at our age, was unusually close to her mother. With their birthdays only being days apart, the two of them were practically twins in their thoughts and personalities. If I believed in Astrology, I could put Cassie and her mother Tanya perfectly into the Capricorn stereotype of organized, intelligent, frank homebodies. As we grew into our teen years, Cassie was fiercely independent, and would bicker with her mother about the level of control exerted. Cassie wasn’t one to go out and party over the weekend. Honestly, they were more likely to fight over a hairstyle than how late Cassie stayed out.

The independence, the organization, the ever-logical to a fault, and blunt nature that defined Cassie never left. During high school, Cassie was an ever neutralizing force for my naturally volatile, dramatic, firecracker tendencies. I had always been analytical, to a point where it drives me bonkers. Or, being ever the walking contradiction that I am, I would do something very impulsively. Cass would always be there to stop, cluck her tongue, and put me in my place. More often than not, I was angry at the rebuke But she was always there, supportive, but sensitively attuned, knowing how I took others opinions of who I was to the heart. Despite her ability to be almost cruelly honest, she was more often than not more gentle with me than what I deserved.

        Despite her natural gravitation to home, friends, and family, and orderly living, Cassie’s independent nature trumped it all. Hidden beneath the quiet, observant, prudent young woman was a blunt, opinionated, outspoken caged lion, roaring for adventure. She could hide who she was from you so well, and then she would surprise you…. Oh yes, disarming you was her greatest joy. You never thought that straight-A teacher’s p I swear girl was able to guess the type of motorcycle a person was riding based on the sound. Got a Harley? She was your best friend. Anything that could do flips, turns, or go fast, oh my, she was on it, booty-long hair flying behind her. The desire for a thrill was eventually what caused her demise. In April of 2007, our beautiful, defiant, intelligent, star was riding her ATV, took a ramp, than flew off the four ATV. The ATV then landed on her skull. From my understanding, it killed her instantly, taking a young and vibrant life to eternity.

        I will always remember the last time I saw her. Cassie was over at a neighbor’s house visiting.  It was my last summer living in Waterloo, and I hadn’t seen Cassie in ages. I ran over to say hello. She was sitting in a kiddie pool wearing a mismatched bikini, as usual, not overly worried about her clothing, just her hair. Cassie had moved into a trailer with her boyfriend, Trinity, and was working full-time building cabinetry.  Cass probably could have gone to college on scholarship with her grades, but she loved what she did. Cassie asked if I wanted to see her home; of course I did! I wondered if her house looked any different than Tanya’s…. Cassie’s style had not changed one bit. But…. it was a bit…. messy. Cassie complained about what a pig Trinity was, how she always had to clean up after him, how she did all the work, how he always moved her stuff, how it drove her CRAZY….. as always, Cassie wanted things done her way. I told her about my plans to move to Des Moines permanently, and I applied with a job working with kids with autism. I bet she wondered if I had the patience to handle that kind of a job (which amazingly enough I did). We discussed about her job, her life, her cats, who were the same ones she’d had since we were sixth graders together at Logan Middle School. She was satisfied with it all.

I remember when she died. It was a beautiful day in the middle of April. I was at church, helping with youth group. I received a call on the church phone. It was my mother; she was crying. I stiffened, knowing instantly someone had passed away. I calmed my mother down, and she informed me Cassie had died. I was stunned. It was incomprehensible. As soon as I was off the phone and told my then-boyfriend Philip what happened, he threw his arms around me, which as a student of FBBC seminary was breaking a rule. Sometimes though, breaking a rule becomes necessary.

The funeral was Wednesday. I took off work that day, and drove to my friend Amy’s home in Iowa Falls. We then carpooled to Waterloo. Seeing Tanya at the funeral was devastating. She held me for a long time, and told me that Cassie said I was one of the best friends she’d ever had, and still was, not long before she died. The thing was, I lost touch with her. I didn’t feel worthy of that title. Friends call me loyal, but Cassie’s loyalty to her friends and family could put me to shame.

As the funeral ended, Tanya chose to play the song, “Have A Nice Day,” by Jon Bon Jovi, Cassie’s all-time favorite singer. The chorus:

 Oh, if there is one thing I hang on to,
That gets me through the night.
I ain't gonna do what I don't want to,
I'm gonna live my life.
Shining like a diamond, rolling with the dice,
Standing on the ledge, I'll show the wind how to fly.
When the world gets in my FACE,
I say, Have A Nice Day.
Have A Nice Day….

Yes. This defined who she was. One hundred percent. Cassie, in all her beauty, brains, wisdom, enjoyment of simplicity and sauciness, was never afraid to be herself.

What I learned from Cassie: don’t be afraid to live the life that makes you happy. Don’t be afraid to take a risk. I am currently at a crossroads in my life; the choice I make will be another major risk. That, I will discuss tomorrow.

But for now, middle and high school friends, leave comments. Let’s remember Cassie for her beauty, her vibrance, warm acceptance of others, and fearlessness. Let’s strive to be like her. I remember all the year some of us made fun of her, but I think deep down we all wanted to be as comfortable with what we were as she was with herself. Shame on us for not embracing her beauty sooner.