My best childhood friend was Nasilla Nnoc as she secretly called herself. Allison was my first memory of a special friend. We shared many horse experiences they were her favorite and the Beetles as they were popular in our teenage years. We both liked McCartney, but she told me I was to like George Harrison. We shared a friend called Wayne Halgarth.

We were opposite in some ways I was the oldest of six kids, and she was the youngest of two and her older sister was off to college and discovering the World. We did visit her older sister in Seattle, WA.

We met in an obscure small town named Elgin, in eastern Oregon in 4th grade and continued to keep in touch although we moved to different high schools in different states our freshman year. She introduced me to her boyfriend, and we shared him for a while, his name was Sam Valentine Brandt, he was an artist.

Allison and I got drunk on her father’s moonshine  given to him at the mill where he worked. It was in a Vodka bottle in her refrigerator, and we had it with tomato juice for breakfast one morning when I stayed with her.

We told her mom that we wanted to listen to the radio in the pickup. So we went out, and she decided we could drive it, I shifted gears, and she used the clutch, brake and gas pedals as we drove a couple of blocks and then back.

On a country road, we were greeted by the dogs of our farm friend we planned to visit. She turned to run, and I grabbed her and said, “We can’t run or they will chase us.” They kept coming but only followed us up the lane. I like to think I once taught her something.

We each married the first time, on the same day, but across the state from each other. I had called to invite her to my wedding. She came for a visit on her honeymoon.  I realized she was pregnant, but I did not tell her I was too. Our first children were born ten days apart.

Our friendship died over a letter she wrote about selling drugs while our children were in grade school.

I’d like to know how she is, as it’s been over forty years.

Carol Bouchard

*****

I was just about a year old, barely able to walk when I first saw him. He appeared to be a shadow moving in the corner of my vision. And then one day he stepped out of the shadows and looked me straight in the eye and said, “Hi my name is Georgie, will you be my friend?”

I didn’t know much about reality at age one, but I did suspect it was odd for a stuffed bunny to talk, much less to move on its own.

Since I didn’t talk at age one, I just listened to Georgie talk sing and dance to entertain me.

By the age of a year and a half, I was uttering words that Georgie would use. My mother and father were shocked when I blurted out the f-word. After all, I had no idea what it meant.

By the time I was ten my vocabulary had greatly expanded from other ten-year-olds. I learned the hard way which words were not acceptable. When I did use unacceptable words, I had my mouth washed out with soap. That happened so often my friends would call me Ivory.

Georgie stopped talking to me when I was 12. He and I got into a fight and ever since he pretended to be just a stuffed bunny.

Linda Scott