I opened to the “M” page in my address book yesterday and found a sweet little chronology. The first entry for the M family was entered a few weeks after we first moved in thirty years ago. They were our new neighbors and we would eventually become friends. There was no need yet for dialing area codes locally, and the phone numbers hadn’t morphed into odd exchanges that no longer indicated their geographical association. (Decatur 2-9433, anyone?) Just seven digits, written in my usual large, chunky grade-school penmanship.
The M boys were about ten and fourteen then. Soon M1 went off to college. A few new lines on the M page. I sent him a care package or two. He always came by for a visit on his school breaks. Then M2 followed suit, and he got a few new lines, and packages. Then there were some study-abroad years – and now we were on to the second page. In the meantime, the cell phone age had enveloped us, and with it the need to add Mom M and Dad M’s newest numbers. Then Dad’s office changed location. Then Mom changed jobs. Then M1 went to grad school. M2 transferred. Page three.
The next entry in the book was M1’s first post-grad apartment, then his second. And his third. At this point the entries included cell phones and email addresses, as well as street addresses. Then M2 was updated with the address he would be moving to upon his marriage. After that, their first home. Then their first child’s name and birthday, then the second. And the third. I’d be up to page four whenever the next M baby was born.
Of course, by now email was the preferred mode of communication, and all of this information could should have been captured in my computer’s address book. But I grew up with The Book — my mom’s very elegant leather monogrammed address book that was probably a wedding gift from London Harness. It was kept on the kitchen counter next to the phone. It was like the family Bible. I started one when I first moved out. When I got married and started to build a larger nest, I went and bought a new one to call our own. It’s a hard habit to break.
As I was putting the book away, a few loose pages fell out. Of the eighteen entries looking up at me from the floor, six people are dead, three are divorced and four are out of business.
But the remaining five are still current, so I’ll fix it. Though I had promised to purge the dunes of paper I’ve allowed to share my home for too long, this may have to be an exception.