June 16, 1979… At 6:30 D. got me and we went to Peterson Park (because he forgot to take money out of the bank) and played frisbee and talked while (his friend) filled up the tires with air… it was fun. (He then took me home and went to a party.) I guess Norm and Mom and Dad were talking about him… he didn't go to the bank and get some money even though he knew we were going out that night. Norm told them, "If I knew I was taking a girl out, I'd make DAMN sure I had some money!" He was a little mad. Mom told me that.
I saw my infatuation was rather pathetic. Ours was an empty relationship, devoid of stability in its most meager sense. I recalled how often his intentions were rejoined with apologetic excuses when those intentions were waived to pursue other activities in which I had no part. Such treatment consumed trust and debilitated affection, causing me to turn gradually from my romantic ideal and grasp reality, despite the pain that the action entailed; self-deceit would only delay the inevitable hurt that naturally accompanied unfulfilled dreams.
With summer nearly sunning itself on the doorstep, I fostered no conscious inclination to fret over my flickering flame; too well I remembered the previous summer, through which I mourned the loss of a different guy's attentions (whose attentions, I might add, were the first I had ever received, as he was my first actual date). I finally realized, after ruining my entire summer, it was the attention, not the guy, over which I lamented. I liked knowing that I was, to an extent, desirable and attractive for my feminine qualities, a knowledge which had to come from sources other than my mom and dad to seem valid. As I no longer required a male admirer to uphold or applaud various aspects of myself to assure my adequacy as a person, I looked forward to the upcoming months with reminiscent anticipation.
Among the various events of the summer which followed 11th grade was the renewal of friendship between Steve, my next-door neighbor, and me. Throughout junior high our meetings had been markedly sparse, the result of differing circles of friends rather than personal quarrels.
After several brief conversations, we discovered we shared common interests which could provide the foundation for a friendship. Our "fellowship" introduced me to people who eventually became friends of my own, and those from school with whom I had previously associated but drifted slowly toward other interests and destinations.
The new introductions included Jon, whose companionship colored many days of the summer and would later evolve into an extended relationship. Looking at the pages of my diary, the carefree days described therein now seem to possess a dream-like quality; the days were bundles of minutes in which only the present mattered. I did my chores and went out with friends; I threw the frisbee and played miniature golf; there were picnics and movies and light conversation. The whirlwind had stabilized, but it hadn't slowed… and I did not give myself time to think.
Norm, however, provided me with such time. When we spent several hours together, canoeing, hiking through wooded trails, or lunching near a winding river, I was unconscious of time. An hour was not a hoard of 60 minutes crammed sardine-style into the face of a clock. Conversation was a matter of choice rather than obligation and an aura of humor pervaded the atmosphere in which jokes need not be vocalized to be shared and understood. With Norm, I was able to find the peace which seemed so elusive in other company, and to revel in the silence that, through my lack of assertiveness, I was otherwise unable to attain. I felt whole in my brother's presence rather than a torn and fragmented person who cringed under hostility, watched silently the destruction which acquaintances wrought upon themselves, and melted beneath the persuasive tactics used to rob me of time I did not wish to give. Norm spoke "to" me and "with" me, but never "at" me, an aspect of togetherness in which other relationships often failed; thus, as my segmented self fell into entirety, it did not take long before I realized his presence was prized beyond all others. At a time in my life when emotional stability was a rare commodity, I felt lucky to have discovered the mutual compatibility which grew rapidly between my brother and me; indeed, I believe we were both lucky. Not often does one encounter an unassuming yet caring relationship in which no conditions or specific roles exist to induce friction and jeopardize love itself; it was a gift that I appreciated more as time passed, yet without hesitation took for granted, feeling confident that, as I for him, my brother would always "be there" for me, a listener, friend and companion. If only my other friendships were half as dependable, half as refreshing!
Although most of our plans were slated for the weekend, we occasionally took several hours of a week day evening to go for a motorcycle ride or take a long walk. Walks were especially enjoyable because they often included what we labeled "blow-it-out conversations," which were comprised of disturbing thoughts or events that generally remained inaudible plagues. Grievances, observations and complexes tumbled forth to be dissected in a rational means by two brains rather than one, which would hopefully render a more concise view of the idea or problem, or dissolve it completely. We also delved in areas of questions for which there were no answers, posing inquiries for discussion rather than for the solution thereof. After such vigorous conversations, we both felt somewhat exhausted, yet relieved just the same. I was always reminded of a tea kettle filled with boiling water which had to let off steam or explode; had I been unable to "blow-it-out," my emotions would have strained violently against my being, and while a shattered tea-pot could be replaced, sanity was less easily restored.
Norm, too, expressed his gratitude for the ability to release emotional tension through discussion. Living alone had provided ample time for solitude and the perusal of philosophical writings, but that aloneness needed to be buffered by personal interaction. Norm was an individual who required more time alone than did most people, yet he was not an island, entirely self dependent and devoid of the need for others, and though his employment allowed a degree of social interaction, it was only the light-hearted, surface variety in which "closeness" had no part. Our outings were at once social and personal, depending upon the present need; that is, each meeting was not wholly devoted to serious conversation, for that, too, would have become wearisome if depth and meaning were relentlessly sought. Life truthfully has its burdens, but conversation need not be added to the list; all things, I believe, must be tempered, and lacking carefree banter and easy laughter, life gains nothing.
With a full two months of my summer vacation behind me, I was looking forward to a three-week vacation in Syracuse, New York when August arrived. I would be spending time with Sherry, a pen-pal who had evolved into a good friend through the exchange of letters. The previous year she had accepted our invitation to visit Illinois and accompanied us on a week-long trip to the Colorado Rockies. I was now repaying the visit.