My "wooie wooie" writer friend ( a "wooie wooie" being her designation of an oddity so strange it must be supernatural) emailed to inform me of a 'voice from the past'.

My friend had written a newspaper essay and quoted me in it. In return she had received an email praising her article (and rightfully so), but also saying that the writer of the email had been a close friend of Dale Estey from high school. Could a "hello" be passed on, plus an email address. Which were.

Now, unknown to anyone, I have been trying to reach this high school friend for the last two years. I have the notion of writing memoirs, and wanted to plumb her memory. I've had this notion of memoirs since the turn of the (this) century, but my enthusiasm does seem to fade. It is the same as keeping a diary, I try every year and never last a month. I do wonder if the time will come when I wished I had, but I doubt it. It hasn't happened yet.

And I was not after stories for memoirs so much, but assuaging my worry that I might just eventually forget things. I was more after notes-of-life. That is all I have done so far on these memoirs, made notes of events for my formative years, now reaching my university days. Since I don't think I'll forget the important stuff from then to now, I have lost most of my interest.

However, I will email this voice from the past, and even direct her to Red Room. A form of crib notes for my more recent life.