This article comes to us from Nancy, who lives in Rocky Mount, NC and has been a guest contributor to Oops50 before.
Photo Courtesy of AP
I have a voicemail from Elizabeth Edwards saved on my home phone. It joins five from my good friend Lolo. I have room to get one long message or maybe two short ones before my mailbox is full, but I won’t delete any of those precious six. I thought I was being punk’d when I first heard the message. She identified herself and proceeded to recount how we had played softball together in the seventies and how I had come to her wedding–and even mentioned the present I had brought. I listened rather stunned by it all. She ended by leaving her contact numbers and putting an old friend of mine, who was there with her, on the phone. It was her voice and his voice, but, for the life of me, I had no memory of personally knowing her. Yes, I had played on a softball team, and, yes, I had a roommate who made handmade baskets, the gift I had brought. But going to her wedding? You’d think I would remember that.
I had actually had two close encounters with Elizabeth Edwards over the years. We rode on the same plane to Atlanta probably ten years ago, and about four years ago, as my daughter and I were leaving a basketball game at the Dean Dome, I reached out to touch my daughter’s hair, and this woman walking behind me commented on how beautiful it was. I turned and recognized her and stumbled through something about how glad I was to hear that she was doing so well. She thanked me, and we continued walking.
