We became fast friends in the first grade when the teacher was out of the room. Her name was Carol; a little blondie with a pixie cut and neatly pressed dress. That annoying boy, Charlie Stidham, called us both, “chicken legs,” and someone ended up with a bloody nose. Carol ran down the hall, not for the teacher, but the janitor, thinking we could clean up the crime scene before the teacher got back.
Everyone needs a Carol in their life.
Carol Swanson and I shared classrooms in first grade, second, third, and fourth. All the grades after, if we were not together, we were still together. Unlike me, she always had a boyfriend, always had a plan, always knew where she was going.
I was along for the ride.
After high school, we married our high school sweethearts; Carol was part of my wedding and I stood beside her in hers. Our husbands were easy friends so we road tripped to concerts, hosted theme parties, and sometimes went places we shouldn’t have been.
Those were the good old days.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard
