You remember

the story of my college roommate, Jackie, she of the raven hair (gift

of a Shawnee ancestor) and rich soprano voice; married a seminary student

who became a chaplain at Brown, had two children, divorced in the troublous

1960s.

After raising

the kids alone, she became an advocate for the voiceless: migrant workers,

minorities, the homeless. With characteristic disregard for material things,

she ignored life's little necessities like health insurance and provision

for her old age. Made a series of bad choices, at times was all but homeless

herself, and by the time we reconnected after 30 years, her life was in

a spiral of depression, made worse by faltering health.

I worried over

her again as I did when we were roommates. Didn,t see her often, or long,

so relied on letters and the telephone. Our conversations usually ended

with me depressed, her tremulous plea echoing long after we hung up "Pray

for me, Sallie. I really mean it."

I urged her

to come visit, told her this is an easy place to live (although not famous

for spirituality) and I have room I could take care of her. But I knew

she'd never leave the New Jersey town where her daughter, herself in a

troubled marriage, lives.

So when she

called in January and announced she was coming to visit for a few days,

thanks to a gift from her son, my mind began to whirl. She sounded upbeat,

her laugh pure music what had changed?

I attributed

her recovery to effective medicine. "No, no," she declared.

"Thank God. He took awhile, but has at last answered prayer."

I worried that

she'd find my life too materialistic it is, believe me and Peachtree City

too worldly. The evening she was to arrive, I had my heart set on going

to a Delta pilot's retirement party. How strong would she be? Dave was

off boating with friends could I cope alone if this broken woman reverted

to deep depression?

I fretted in

vain. She was definitely no longer depressed. I'm not into pop-psychology,

but before it was over, I began thinking of what I'd heard about the other

half of manic-depression, the euphoric upswings.

Should have

known from the moment Delta flight 1199,s carousel was cleared, and no

sign of Jack, that things were going to be interesting. Delta won't tell

you who was or was not on a given flight, of course, and, knowing she

did not have a cell phone, I hadn't brought mine.

I was frantic.

Called my own answering machine; no message. Stupidly, I had not brought

her phone number either and didn't want to drive all the way home, not

knowing where she was.

I sought help

from the pleasant young thing at Delta's information desk. She had Jack

paged, but there was no response. "I don,t know what to do,"

I pled. "She's an older woman," (all of four years older than

me) "and unaccustomed to travel. She had to be on that airplane."

Two hours after

flight 1199 had landed, Jackie-less, the right question finally came to

me: "When's your next flight due in from Philadelphia?"

"It just

landed," came the reply. Ah, I thought, she has to be on it, and

I resumed pacing from carousel to escalator.

Then, suddenly,

there she was, looking like an Estonian refugee with a blue cotton kerchief

on her head, watching the bags sliding onto the wrong carousel.

"Jack!

What happened?" I cried, embracing her.

"Oh, Sal,

they thought I was a terrorist!" Looking around nervously, I hushed

her until she could pour out her story less publicly.

The two-hours-early

rule was still in place, and she'd been up since 5 to make the flight.

After her daughter dropped her at the airport, she got a cup of coffee

and sat down to read a magazine. No, not "read"; she absorbs.

She gets every word she reads, every word she hears, often capturing them

on a stack of notes she seems always to have in hand.

The short of

it is that she missed flight 1099. She was so involved in her reading

that she never heard them call the flight, nor her name. And when the

number of bags checked onto 1199 didn,t match the number of passengers,

they had to unload the hold.

They had already

confiscated a small pair of scissors. It's a wonder she was out of jail,

much less out of Philadelphia.

Under the circumstances,

Delta was gracious with her and put her on the next flight. And the story

made for delicious retelling, on my part, at the party that evening.

Oh, yes, we

went. I thought she wouldn't be interested, but she was eager to go, and

it was a wonderful party. Ted Thomas, family and friends are among the

most loving, close-knit of any I know; I am so grateful to be among them.

And Jackie, a stranger, was warmly welcomed to this world, so very different

from hers, and enjoyed it tremendously.

There was a

small band - trumpet, guitar, piano, and bass - and it was all she could

do not to jump up and sing with them as she had done to earn food money

as a college student. She got into deep conversations with people I don't

even know, and relished the country club atmosphere.

Asked me to

get her an ale, and drank every bit of it. Maybe a tad tipsy, she laughed

and glowed, and when I took her home, I felt like I had attended the ball

with Cinderella.

More another

time.

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