For most of us there comes a time in our
young lives when, whether we are aware of it at the time or not,life naturally carries us through an experience or a phase of experiences which in retrospect
is definitively our "coming of age". This is my story.

My story begins with the only part that in my heart is really worthy of the telling. I want to tell you about Lisa. Lisa was a classmate of mine; she was also a good friend. But I was not aware of how special her friendship was until long after raw experience has ripened into wisdom. I am not being as hard on myself as it might seem. What does a 12 year old understand of the subtler truths Life reveals only in wisdom's reflection? The experiences of of that Summer were hard--the lessons from them were harder in coming, and Lisa's influence was as pivotal and subtle within it as the balanced center of a spinning potter's wheel.

By October of that year, 1975, I would be 13, and light years distant from the innosense of my childhood like springtime. But that Spring we were all still children really--me and my friend John, whom I had known since I was four; my friend Stacey, who was as close to me as any sister could be; Eddie, who we included in everything even though he hardly ever said anything; and Lisa. There was a few years difference in ages among us, but we were all in the same class because we attended a special school for handicapped kids.

John and I had Cerebral Palsy and walked with Canadian crutches; Stacey had Spina Bifida; her right leg was paralyzed and stunted her growth. Eddie had Cerebral Palsy and was in a wheelchair. Lisa was one of the only kids I knew whose handicap was not from birth. It was sheer fascination for me when, on occasion, Lisa would mention something of what it was like for her before we met--a radiantly healthy, beautiful black girl being bussed to her desegregated sixth-grade school with all the other able-bodied kids. Her movements were still smooth and graceful, beyond anything I thought I could ever hope for, and it was obvious--to me at least--that she had not always been wheelchair-bound. Even her seizures, which could grip her upper body and propel her head slamming forward without warning, seemed to come as one, gliding, cohesive movement.

If Lisa understood the dynamics of what put her so abruptly into a wheelchair, and took her out of the "mainstream" of her peers, she never mentioned it. She tended to be calm and quiet, rarely concerned with much beyond what was in front of her in any given moment. Reflecting back on it now, it is sincerely accurate to say Lisa was one of the most Zen-oriented souls I've ever known.

Perhaps it is this consistency in her character which underscored for me the
the strikingly converse and haunting quality of what Lisa said to me--me and John, together, one corner-turning Spring afternoon at lunch. John and I were just standing right next to her chair carrying on some pre-teen thought or other, when Lisa gently stopped our conversation with a smile and said, "Vicky and John, I want to invite you to my funeral."

How would one respond to anyone making such a statement??? Not to mention that neither John nor I hardly had a concept of a funeral down to such a detail as imagining attending one--never mind being Invited! Tenderly and kindly as John and I tried, Lisa would not be talked off the sincerity of what she was saying. She did not need, or want to talk about it--there was no How? or Why? or When? She simply, "wanted us to know we were invited." She mentioned it to no one else, and for her, that was that.

I have no idea what John thought or felt at that point. For me, however, the instant it was clear she was serious, it was as though time stood still. The expression on her face became a snapshot in my mind. But I especially remember a song that was playing on a T.V. in our background at that moment--The theme to the popular Soap Opra, "The Young and the Restless." The following summer this would become the "Nadia's Theme" during the Summer Olympics of '76, when it became the chosen program music for the history-making performance of Olympic Gymnast Nadia Comaneche on the Parallel Bars. Each time I hear that theme as it calls Lisa to mind, I have often counted it as an odd synchronistic blessing to me of certainty over time that this memory stays as clear as the day it happened.

Fortunately at times, what is hard to wrap ones mind around is easily forgotten. The rest of the school year slowly melted into Summer with great anticipation, much as any other year. And before I knew it July found us all at Summer Camp on Mingus Mountain in Arizona for a week--all except Stacey--but that part of the story is for later. So, Lisa, John and Eddie and I were on the old vintage yellow school bus, The Yellow Submarine it was affectionately called, hauling up the one-way dirt road to Camp Mingus singing the Beatles, "Yellow Submarine" all the way.

I had been to Camp Mingus the year before, and felt at home--happy to be there. But as soon as I stepped foot off the bus evidence was abundantly clear that I had blossomed into, "quite the attractive young woman," as I overheard one person say, since the counselors and Staff had last seen me. Over the week one person declared with conviction I could be mistaken for Haley Mills; the staff was musing what it would take to offer me a counselor-apprenticeship the following year. I was, admittedly, precocious and almost never perceived as younger than 16 by strangers. But, this consistent quality of attention was totally new to me, and while I could not help but smile, it made me feel giddy and uncertain.
Uncertainty would soon explode into emotional chaos, only intensified by an 18 year-old college student, camp counselor named Bob.

In practical terms counselors were buddied to campers with absolutely no pretense; everyone just did what naturally worked out best. Energetically, who can deny the hand of fate--it was before Bob ever caught sight of me he was buddied to Eddie.
And I was part of Eddie's comfort zone.

So, naturally, Eddie, Bob and I spent a lot of time together. Before I knew it Bob was taking every inconspicuous opportunity possible to be close to me. No doubt, he needed to be dissuaded, and decisively. But how does a 12 year old say, "Don't like me so much," to a literally tall, dark and handsome football player in a position of Guidance, who treats you like you're sixteen??? To be clear, throughout the majority of the week he never "did" anything the least bit alarming. I believe the other counselors were blinded from seeing the energy between us by the logical focus Bob had on Eddie.

Over swimming, and movies, and campfires under the most spectacular display of the Milky Way I may ever see,
by the second to our last night Bob was preoccupied with me and dreaming of a relationship long-distance; he lived in Phoenix, I lived in Las Vegas. I was Twitterpated to be sure, but absolutely could not believe he would ever act on
his promises to call and write me. I was sure his impression of me would fade as soon as we were down off the mountain.

The second-to-the-last night, at the Talent show, Lisa's Cabin did a rendition of Tie a Yellow Ribbon. Lisa played the part of the Tree--She had brightly colored signs all around her wheelchair, "The Tree of Life." All the other kids danced 'round and 'round her for the duration of the song tying yellow ribbons all over her. She just sparkled, and I knew how happy she must have felt being offered such a central part of so much fun.

All week the counselors and staff had been saying that the last night of camp would be very special. There would be a dance and a slumber party--all of us camped out together in a big gymnasium-type cabin--and something else they would not say--but there was a great deal of excitement as the sun set around the dining hall that last night. Everyone in camp was gathering around. Amid the buzz of activity the atmosphere of a 5-Star Italian Restaurant was clearly emerging from inside. It smelled Wonderful!!!

As I stood there following my nose into detailed imaginings of all there would be to eat, John caught my attention off to the side by a tree. He was pensive, and did not want to talk out loud. "Lisa doesn't look so good to me," he whispered. We went over to where her chair was parked to talk to her. Her eyes were bloodshot and everything about her seemed particularly sluggish. We asked her if she felt ok, and she said she was fine. John and I went back under the tree and put our heads together. Intuition left us both feeling disturbed and uncertain. Should we say something to somebody--the camp nurse, maybe? We had seen the nurse moving throughout camp daily with different kids medications, and such. Clearly, she watched over us with great care. If we said something, would it spoil the mood for everybody? We did not know what to do, so we went back over to Lisa and encouraged her to say something if she did not feel well. She waived us off with a weak smile.

Inside at dinner, we found soft candle light over red and white checkered table cloths, flowers on every table, long-stemmed (plastic) glassware, and every serving counselor wore a red silk vest. It was positively precious, and I am sure the finest dining atmosphere some of the kids had ever experienced. Dinner was served in courses to boot.

As the servers came around for desert orders in the semi-darkness, the jubilent hush of conversations and giggles was shattered into silence
by a sudden THUD so powerful that we all felt it vibrate through the floor. Lights came up simultaneously with immediate confusion as counselors scrambled to touch base with campers. My heart was pounding and I scanned around to the point of response across the room diagonally from me. I stood up and saw the camp nurse knelt on the floor. The Leader of the Camp, Brad, was standing over her. I could not make out the scene below the nurses shoulders, her back was facing my view. Then I watched all the color in Brad's face drain as stifled panic flooded his contenence. "Everybody out!" he shouted, his eyes never leaving the floor.

We filed out of the area over to the gymnasium with as many questions as there were people, and no one knew anything. All of my energy had drawn within, and as I came out of the building, leaning intuition against the only person I did not see, I said,
"God, please don't let Lisa die." In that moment, I recalled nothing of her invitation.

Needless to say, the remainder of that evening nothing went as planned. Most of the counselors made a valiant effort at making things feel as normal as possible. I say "most" because, much to my chagrin, Bob attempted to take advantage of the confusion and suggested he and I should sneak away from the crowded gym and go out under the stars. This completely lost my comprehension--did he not know that Lisa was my friend? What could possibly be more important than her being OK at that moment?

To my surprise, everyone still slumbered in the gymnasium that night. My guess is everything was in place for it, and it was actually easier on everyone stress-wise not to change the plan mid-stream. Long after the fire had died down, and almost everyone in the room could be heard sleeping, Bob was suddenly within an arms reach of me. How he managed this, I would never know. Fortunately, we were not exactly side by side and he was unable to get the length of his body next to me at all. Kissing was somehow easy, though; he introduced me to kisses like I had no concept to dream of--I felt as though time stood still. By dawn Bob was nowhere in my vacenity, and I was grateful; I had no idea how to make eye-contact with all that feeling.

While I did not know how to look at Bob as we packed up onto the bus, he did not know how to say good-bye to me, I learned from him later. I left Mingus Mountain that day never once making eye contact with Bob, and with a deep and gaping sense of void where Lisa was missing. No one addressed what was known or unknown about what happened to her. I left a great deal more, energetically and physically on that mountain this time than what I had come with, and in more ways than I could possibly know, it would change the course of my choices and the development of my character in ways I would not realize for years to come.

The second day that I was home from camp Bob called. I was at a total loss for what in the world to tell my mother as to why a man would be calling me from camp. I don't even remember what I said in response. I did get to talk to him under a watchful eye. He was determined that we should be able to carry on a relationship. He had a vision of open communication about everything that would need to be considered, which I could in no way let be revealed to my mother. I told him there was no way, and he would have to stop calling me. It was heart-breaking to hear I was sincerely dashing his hopes--especially when I certainly already knew that the scope of men who will naturally find a handicapped woman attractive is limited.

The events of my day would have already put it at landmark status in the memories of almost any 12 year-old. What happened that night made it unimaginable. At dinner time a formidable storm was rolling in; just about the time my parents were readying candles and flashlights, just in case, the phone rang. It was John. I knew before I picked up the receiver that he was going to say what I did not want to hear. There was a silent pause, but he knew I was there: "Vicky, Lisa died."

In that very breath before I even had a chance to respond, the power went out around us. The sudden darkness sent the confirmation of his words to my brain with a blow. I felt sick with a primal rush of fear of death magnified exponentially by the eerie blackness and timing. I could not talk, and handed the phone to my mom.

John also did not know how to talk about it, and his mom and my mom put some pieces together for all of us over the phone. When John's mom realized the gravity of what had happened she made some calls before John called us. We found out that Lisa had a major heart attack. The camp was unable to move her immediately because they had to stabilize her first. She died at a hospital at about 2 a.m. When John's Mom offered to take us to the services sitting there in the dark, it HIT me.

As the "snapshot" of the moment of the Invitation flooded my minds-eye, my thoughts and my heart were reeling in awe and sadness, on top of the wonderment what might have been different had John and I said something. At the time there were no words to talk to either of our mothers about this.

So, no one concerned with this event ever knew what John and I were holding in our hearts the whole time. I would like to have offered to her family--particularly her mother--that Lisa had clearly known she was going to go. I would really like to have offered this to Brad, the head Camp Mingus. Sometimes even today something or other will take me back to those defining moments, and I see the color draining from Brad's face. How much it might have comforted he and his young wife to realize there was clearly a larger plan in play then any human mistake they may have felt they made.

And, on top of all this even then, during the funeral, I came away with the conviction that every detail of the unfolding had its place. John and I and John's mother were the only white people to attend. Not that this means anything in the big picture--but in the intimate moment one could definitely imagine we would not have been there had she not left us while we were at camp with her. When I think back on it now there is the definite feeling that her special Invitation to us set up
the uncanny sychronicities that would assure we would be there.