Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Birthday Wish

Today is my friend Carrie’s 24th birthday. I thought I’d call her and sing “Happy Birthday” (or “Go Shorty, it’s your birthday”), but as I scanned my cell phone contacts, I jumped from “Aunt Elyse” to “Charles.” No Carrie. I phoned Carrie’s parents -- whose number I know by heart -- but I got their answering machine. I left a message.

Carrie, wherever you are, I hope you’re celebrating.

The reason I know the number of Carrie’s parents is: I dialed it nearly every single day of my childhood. Carrie was my first friend in Murfreesboro. On a summer afternoon in 1985, I marched down the street to her family’s pale yellow house, knocked twice on the door and, upon finding her on the other side, announced, “I’m Jesse, and I’m four and a half.” Carrie asked, “What does ‘half’ mean?” Duh. I replied, “It means you’re almost five.” Carrie said, “I’m three and a half.”

I wasn’t too sure about playing with younger kids, but I saw the Disney train set on her living room floor and decided she might not be so bad -- for a child.

Remember all the great toys of the ‘80s? Barbie and the Rockers. My Little Pony. Smurfs. Carrie and I played with all of these. Our favorite thing to do was to pretend. One afternoon, we would be schoolteachers, trying to corral an unruly bunch of bears and Popples. Next, we were brave single moms whose husbands had gone to war, leaving us to care for the Cabbage Patch dolls. On rainy afternoons, we were Civil War doctors -- the thunderclaps were cannon fire.

As we got older, we built our play repertoire. In the heyday of New Kids on the Block, we became FBI agents, trying to track down dangerous Donnie Wahlberg . We practiced shooting at each other with the “Duck Hunt” gun from Carrie’s Nintendo set (much to the chagrin of our parents, who were sure we’d inflict radiation damage). When Carrie’s mom and dad got a video camera, we filmed several episodes of a “Wayne’s World”-style show. We called our program “Under the Covers,” though we weren’t exactly sure what that meant.

Carrie and I never attended the same school, but I know that her first-grade teacher was Mrs. Dolly Jolly. (Mine was less-dramatic Dr. Jones.) We couldn’t swap secrets about our classmates, but we enjoyed tormenting our neighbor, Nathaniel. During caterpillar season, we told Nathaniel we could make the caterpillars “throw up.” We then smushed the poor crawlers until they oozed green. Maybe my vegetarianism grew out of caterpillar remorse.

Puberty hit -- wham. Carrie’s parents enrolled her at Central Middle, where most of my elementary school buddies wound up. My parents sent me to Webb, a private boarding/day school. I’ve never regretted Webbhood -- in 7th grade I met two non-Murfreesboro kids who were to become my best friends. I doubt I could’ve made it to my quarterlife crisis without Hillary and Jessica.

Still, the distance between 119 Cherry Lane and 133 Cherry Lane grew a lot larger.

Carrie eventually became a “Riverdale Warrior;” I stayed a “Webb Foot.” Our family pets -- the cats and dogs we used to dress in baby clothes -- got older and crankier.

By 1998, my New Kids on the Block posters had been off the walls for at least seven years. I replaced them with prints of Wellesley’s Tower Court and Founders Hall.

Several weeks before I left for college, I called Carrie’s house one more time. We couldn’t legitimately play Barbie Beauty Pageant anymore, but we could make a last CJDJ tape.

CJDJ -- the Carrie and Jesse Disc Jockey Show -- began as an excuse to play Carrie’s Dirty Dancing record five or six times in a row. With advanced recording technology, we could eventually tape our voices interspersed with favorite Top 40 hits. “And now, here’s Whitney Houston reminding you that the greatest love of all is right inside of you!”

After preparing our traditional CJDJ snack of Fritos topped with melted Cheez Whiz, Carrie and I took a couple of Cokes from the fridge and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

Testing….testing….and RECORD.

“The Last CJDJ” cassette is with me in Honesdale, but I’m not going to listen to it tonight. I know that it includes the song “How’s It Gonna Be” by Third Eye Blind. “How’s it gonna be when you don’t know me anymore?” Seemed ridiculous at the time -- the idea that Carrie and I would turn into almost-strangers. “You seriously think I’m going to lose your phone number?” I would’ve told her. “Come on!”

Sometimes I think about a quotation that Carrie posted on her door when we were 11 or 12: “We don’t stop playing because we grow old. We grow old because we stop playing.” George Bernard Shaw, according to Google. I wonder if things would have turned out differently if we hadn’t stacked the Barbies in boxes and sent them to the attic. What if we’d set aside time for prom planning and “Oregon Trail”?

Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. Despite what Jon Knight sings on his last New Kids on the Block album, age isn’t “just a number” -- it’s a state of mind.

Two whole decades have passed since I stood in front of Carrie’s door. If I could rewind 20 years, I’d introduce myself all over again. I just wouldn’t leave quite so soon.

4 Comments:

Blogger Jesse Anna Bornemann said...

Even though this is just a blog, I should get my math facts straight -- Carrie was actually four (not "three and a half") when I moved to Murf. She WASN'T "four and a half," though, as she claimed to be. She had a lot to learn from us real four and a half year olds.

6:53 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Jesse that was so sweet. I remember those days...some were not so fondly, but most were. Love Mom

10:12 PM  
Blogger Jesse Anna Bornemann said...

Love you, Mom.
*mwah* dst

7:31 AM  
Blogger Jesse Anna Bornemann said...

No worries, Amy. This is as juicy as this blog is going to get. My life in Honesdale is an open book. And the book definitely isn't Peyton Place.

7:45 AM  

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