Strangers, in many ways

Dear You,

I cannot remember a time when I was happy to meet someone new.  In social situations, even after all these decades, I feel awkward and out of my depth.  I don't remember names, and I cannot tell you how often I've introduced myself to someone who looked instantly puzzled by it -- instantly I realize I should already know who this is.

The opposite is true for meeting new characters in books, and I am on an instant recognition basis with perhaps thousands of people, many of whom I've not encountered again in years and all of whom exist only in print.  I open the cover of a new novel and am instantly on the lookout for the people who will be sharing their lives with me.  I am sensitive to what they say, how they look, where they are, the ways they interact with others.  I fill in blanks and anticipate their next moves.  I love them.

The people I'm meeting today for the first time were created by Nina George in "The Little Paris Bookshop."  Monsieur Jean Perdu and the people surrounding him in Paris began their lives, I believe, speaking German.  Mercifully, I'm reading her book in an English translation and despite beginning it only a few hours ago, I'm about to pick up at Chapter 10.

Way too much  has been written about the power of literature, and I certainly won't add anything to that here.  If you, Dear Reader, also love books, you already know.  Everyone else, I snobbishly believe, are to be pitied for all the worlds they have been missing.  But I have lingered too long . . . I need to know what M. Perdu is about to do, now that he's on the verge of reading The Letter he'd tucked away, unopened, twenty years earlier.  Please excuse me (I'm sorry I can't remember your name).

Dear You,

I know, I know -- it's been awhile since I wrote something here.  Busy, yes; hardly out of ideas!  But I'm already off track.

The email from my high school class chronicler recently let me know that Joanne died -- the 38th member of BHS '60.  I wasn't surprised; after a half century since we sat in those classrooms, it's to be expected.  But it got me thinking . . .

Perhaps the first digits assigned to me (after my fingers and toes were counted) was my Social Securityerfff number.  And since then, so many others I won't bother enumerating.  Just add the credit cards, the driving license, addresses and phone numbers . . . you get the idea.  Some change, and others don't last long enough to remember: "You're caller 7; your call will be answered in 27 more minutes. Please hold."  "52?  52?  May I help you? (this at the deli counter, where I've taken a number for faster service.)"

So it's come to this.  When Bob sends out an eventual email about my demise (should he outlive me, of course!), I'll be assigned one last number.  I hope it's a big one.