Running into Kirk

On Saturday, I was transported back to Newton, NJ, circa 1991 or so.

After teaching Jazzercise (because when you run into people from high school, you always hope that you are really, convincingly smelly...), I stopped at IKEA to pick up a present for our neighbor's daughter's college graduation party. It had been my intent to go in and buy a gift card because who really knows what a 22-year old girl wants except to decorate her own space like an adult? Of course, once I got there, I was overcome by both a desire to shop and an unexpected sappiness that had me buying things and subsequently adding the accompanying labels:

- A mirror (so she can always keep sight of what matters)
- A set of candles (for when she needs to shed a little extra light on things)
- A glass jar (for spare change or wishes or whatever...)
- A bamboo shoot (for luck) - and a vase to put it in
- A basket (for when she needs to get her shit together)
- An IKEA stuffed heart with arms (for when she needs a hug)
- A pair of rubber gloves (for when life gets messy)
- AND, a gift card.

Anyway, I had just made it to the cashier and was wondering how much my purchase would amount to and if/how much I was still going to put on a gift card. I'm sure my brow was furrowed in the most lovely way because I have not worn my glasses in a long time AND I was trying to do basic addition in my head when I heard from behind me, "This may be a long-shot, but Colleen???"

And, there was Kirk, Newton High School class of '86, former next-door neighbor to Lori, my best friend from childhood. The guy who could stop a kickball game dead in the water when he'd kick the ball down the hill onto Main Street. The kid who did not (to the best of my recollection) get angry when, during an adolescent party of some sort, my dog Ping Pong peed on his leg - right in my parents' living room for no apparent reason. The boy who cleaned out his middle school locker and offered me a small wooden "C" that he had probably made in Mr. Beierle's wood shop in 1982 because he liked the Cincinnati Reds or something. (Said "C" is sitting on my dresser - and I don't collect a lot of stuff, so I can't really say why it's still there.) He is also the same guy who built a very cool pasta company in Eugene, OR after he moved out here, and recently sold it... which brings me to the next kind of weird part of the story.

I have been aware of Kirk's Rising Moon pasta since I first ventured out to the Pacific Northwest, although I don't remember exactly how I knew. I knew he was in Eugene, and even once walked around what I think is/was his neighborhood there with my old boyfriend whose brothers lived nearby. His sisters lived within blocks of me when I lived in Portland, and I saw them now and then... but I hadn't been in touch with Kirk directly. Last month, I was in the natural food section of Fred Meyer, and I opened the frozen food case and, I kid you not, a package of frozen Rising Moon ravioli bonked me in the head. I looked on the back, just to check in with Kirk, and I noticed that the label no longer said that the company was in Eugene, but rather was located somewhere in Connecticut or something. It struck me enough that I came home and Googled. The Rising Moon website looked way more "corporate" than I would have expected, which caused me to Google Kirk himself. This led me to his family website which includes an invitation to send off an email, and I did. So, last month, Kirk and I communicated for the first time after nearly 20 years.

And now, here we are, in IKEA at the checkout line. As we're going through the "Wow!" "I can't believe it!" stage, the kid at the cash register totally gets into the discussion and starts talking about coincidences and when he was in Europe and how he ran into the same person he knew from home three different times, and if you are at all familiar with the lines at IKEA, you'll know that they get LONG - especially at noon on a Saturday. So, anyway, I saw Kirk. He still has that kindness in his eyes and in his "aura" that probably kept him from freaking out on my head when my dog peed on him. When all was said and done, I looked back at where the line had been when the reunion began and there was only one person left in it, and sadly she was in a wheelchair and had a lot of stuff on one of their carts with the funky wheels. So, she was left to serve as our captive audience. If I knew who she was, I'd apologize, but it feels good in a "It's a Small World After All" kind of way to reconnect with the occasional person who knew me "when" back in Jersey. And, when that kind of thing happens and I can look back and feel pretty happy about the last couple of decades, life must be okay.