This morning I had an appointment with our accountant* to make sure that my finances are all IRS-grade kosher for my new ventures. After the business was done, it came up that we went to the same elementary school, which is a terribly mundane thing to have happen in the greater Pikesville metro area, but I still get a kick out of running into people who know about some little piece of my past. For 25 years, the odds of running into some one who knew my first grade teacher were slim, now it’s an unsurprising occurrence.
It turns out that he’s friendly with the Feldman twins (both doctors, no less!), from whom my mother desperately tried to get me infected with chicken pox in preschool. From ages three to five, I served as the designated playmate for every itchy, scabby kid in Pikesville, with hopes that I would get through that scourge early in life. Eventually, my mother gave up, figuring that I was naturally immune. I did finally get chicken pox when I was nine, from no discernible source. It was an extremely mild case -I didn’t even really get sick- but nonetheless we had to cancel my ninth birthday party. That sucked. It was supposed to be a rollerskating party. I think that if I ever have enough friends locally to throw myself a birthday party, it’s going to have be a rollerskating party**. I think that would be fun to plan, partly because a roller skating party for someone in her thirties would really mess with the people who coordinate these things at the roller rink. (Are there even roller rinks anymore? I’m old.)
Anyway my account knows people who were in my preschool class, which is cool, and also knows people who went to my high school 120 miles away. This keeps happening. There’s some link between Pikesville and the northeast Philly burbs; I often see the same wedding announcements pop up in the Exponent and in the Jewish Times. The irony of my parents fleeing Pikesville only to have me graduate high school from, effectively, Pikesville North is not lost on me. Nor is the irony of finally finding home nine miles from where I was born after wandering the desert for 25 years.
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*Our accountant is two years younger than me. That’s weird. He does a great job, but people who do important financial things should always be older than me. I mean, I can handle some one younger than me waxing my eyebrows, but filing my taxes? Oy. His wife recently had a baby, so at least he’s some one’s dad. For some reason, that helps.
**With drag queens.
