These are the "girls" I met on a sunny day in September, 1973 as I moved my things into a tiny room on the 4th floor of Whitby Hall at the College of Saint Catherine. St. Kate's (as it is affectionately known) is a college for women. I think I can safely say that all of us were still girls that fall, full of hopes and fears, and carrying with us the narrow perspectives of age, our families and home towns.
St. Kate's was hardly the big city or wide world, protected by today's standards. We had to be in our rooms by 10, quiet if not studying. We could "sign out" for one weekend a month and we're constantly guarded by a Sister of St. Joseph of Carondolet on each floor. On Sunday afternoons "boys" could be in the dorm rooms, providing we had our doors open and feet firmly planted on the wooden floors. Funny thing is, we rarely had boys into our sanctuary. And I sure didn't miss them.
We've graduated to women over the last 33 years. We've all married and given birth. We've buried our parents, our siblings, and two of us have divorced. We've served on committees and boards, make thousands of meals, doctored all kinds of hurts, changed our hair styles, gained and lost weight, laughed, and cried.
We've discovered something quite amazing over the last several years of getting together, each of us has carried a different set of memories of our shared experiences. Somehow, we have captured moments from our collective past and brought them with us through the seasons of our lives to re-live them with each other. I can't tell you one of the stories, because honestly, I can't remember a single one. I guess because they aren't really mine. I only know that in hearing a story told by one of these dear friends with 18-year-old Martha a main character, I find myself, quite literally. And most often, I like what I find and that is a remarkable gift.
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